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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


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^^u-         ^^l 


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V 

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ler 
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10 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n6cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


ita 


lure. 


: 


2X 


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3 

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5 

6 

A 


GERALDINE 


A  SOUVENIR  OF  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE 


BOSTON 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY 

1881 


6945? 


Copyright,  1881, 
By  JAMES   R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


All  rights  reser-ved. 


Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Rand,  Avery,  &>  Co., 
Boston. 


i 


PREFACE, 


Years  ago  I  resolved  to  write  a  romance  in  the  style 
of  verse  which  follows.  I  chose  this  style  as  specially 
well  adapted  to  a  wide  variety  of  expression,  and  be- 
cause at  that  time,  so  far  as  I  knew,  no  author  had 
employed  it  at  such  length  and  for  such  purpose. 
When  it  was  similarly  made  use  of  by  an  English 
poet,  at  a  date  much  more  recent  than  my  resolve,  his 
poem's  popularity  confirmed  my  choice  as  wise  ;  but  I 
have  refrained  persistently  from  reading  that  poem,  or 
hearing  it  read,  or  in  any  way  learning  of  its  character, 
spirit,  and  scope,  lest  unconsciously  I  might  borrow  of 
its  style  or  tliought.  Having  now  taken  leave,  as  far 
as  probably  I  ever  can,  of  my  own  "  Geraldine,"  I  shall 
devote  the  earliest  leisure  accorded  me  to  becoming 
acquainted  with  Owen  Meredith's  "  Lucile." 


• 


Ill 


Te 

Tb 
Ai 
Fo 

Tl] 
Ae 
Tb 
Th 
Th 
W] 

Th 
An 
Th 
W] 
Th 
Wl 
Th 
All 


GERALDINE. 


-4«^ 


I. 


There  is  something  of  poetry  born  in  us  each, 
Though  in  many,  perhaps,  it  is  bom  without  speech,  — 
An  existence  but  dumb  and  uncertain,  t bat  strives 
For  expression  in  vain  through  the  whole  of  their  lives  ; 
That  is  glad  when  the  spring  wears  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  is  sad  when  all  nature  to  tears  would  beguile  ; 
That  can  feel  in  the  summer  a  glory  divine 
Thrilling  on  through  the,  days  in  their  silvery  shine  ; 
That  can  drink  in  delight  in  its  radiance  rare 
When  the  mellow-hued  autumn  breathes  peace  like  a 

prayer ; 
That  can  weep  with  the  world  in  its  woe  of  to-day, 
And  to-morrow  take  part  in  its  merriest  play ; 
That  can  stand  on  the  mountain- tops  often,  and  see 
"Where  the  far-away  gardens  of  paradise  be  ; 
That  can  sound  with  its  plummet  of  feeling  the  deeps 
Where  despair  in  the  darkness  of  destiny  sleeps  ; 
That  can  feel,  and  can  be,  yet  can  never  express 
All  the  feeling  and  being  its  life  may  possess. 


8 


GERALDINE. 


But  that  yearns  with  a  yearning  no  poet  o'er  knew 
In  its  silence  of  years  for  tlie  speech  of  the  few. 


He  was  barely  a  poet,  this  friend  of  my  verse, 

Though  the  singers  not  seldom  at  measure  are  worse, 

And  at  rhyme  ;  for  his  ear  was  so  delicate  strung 

That  it  caught  the  clear  music,  whatever  was  sung. 

And  was  deaf  to  all  discord,  or  listened  as  one 

For  whom  time  of  tormenting  had  early  begun  : 

He  was  less  than  a  poet,  if  pcetry  means 

To  bewilder  the  senses  with  fa)iciful  scenes ; 

To  envelop  each  thought  with  such  mystery  round 

As  to  leave  it  a  marvel  of  meaning  profound  ; 

To  make  pretence  of  passion,  and  tragedy  act 

As  if  love  were  a  lie,  and  all  fiction  were  fact ; 

To  be  chiefly  unreal,  yet  ever  to  seem 

As  if  always  the  real  came  dressed  in  a  dream. 

Yet  men  spoke  of  his  poems  with  praise,  though  they  said, 

*'  He  is  playing  at  verse,"  as  delighted  they  read : 

"  He  was  meant  for  a  poet  in  earnest,  but  waits 

For  a  storm-flood  of  feeling  to  open  the  gates 

Of  his  soul,  till  the  song  that  is  hidden  shall  rise 

Over  hearts  that  are  hushed  with  a  sudden  surprise.'* 


It  is  true  that  he  took  to  occasional  rhymes 
With  an  art  that  was  rather  instinctive  at  tunes  : 
You  might  call  it  a  genius  ;  but  what,  in  the  test, 
Is  a  genius  for  doing,  but  doing  it  best? 


iii 


GERALDINE. 


9 


And  althoiigrh  at  poetic  expression  he  caught 
Half  the  grace  of  a  poet,  and  added  the  thought 
And  the  sentiment  often,  and  many  could  praise 
With  a  flattery  iionest  his  lyrics  and  lays. 
He  was  not  at  his  best  in  this  work  of  his  pen  ; 
For  his  speech  was  a  power  to  move  upon  men  :        / 
And  he  held  that  the  work  of  his  life  was  to  speak 
As  he  might  for  the  right,  be  it  humble  and  weak  ; 
And  his  T^ords  were  unfaltering,  fearless,  and  strong 
In  the  ears  of  the  world  in  complaint  of  the  wrong. 
He  was  better  at  prose  than  at  verse  ;  for  he  made 
Every  sentence  to  cut  like  the  stroke  of  a  blade 
Never  dull :  he  was  quick  to  discover  the  sense 
Of  all  sophistries  subtle  ;  and  every  pretence 
He  would  riddle  and  scathe  with  an  irony  bom 
Of  his  genuine  honor,  his  marvellous  scorn. 


They  had  faith  in  his  future,  who  frequently  heard 
His  defence  of  the  true  ringing  out  till  it  stirred 
Every  heart  to  keen  sympathy.     But,  as  for  him, 
It  was  little  he  thought;  of  the  years  that  were  dim 
In  the  distance  ahead.     He  was  living  to-day 
With  its  needs  and  its  gifts ;    and  no  cynic  could 

say 
He  was  laggard  of  life.     Full  abreast  of  the  hour 
Did  he  keep,  never  sparing  of  work  or  of  power. 
He  was  spendthrift  of  being,  without  any  heed 
For  the  want  of  the  morrow,  its  duty  or  need. 


If 

i  1  ^ 


10 


GEEALDINE. 


"  Let  the  future  take  care  of  itself,"  was  bis  thought : 
"  If  I  care  for  the  present,  as  every  man  ought, 
Do  the  work  of  a  man  with  the  will  of  a  man, 
'Tis  enough." 

So  he  made  neither  pui     se  nor  pUiu 
For  the  future  :  he  held  no  ambitious  desire 
To  mount  up  on  his  deed  to  a  deed  that  was  higher. 
No  ideal  he  worshipped,  of  work  or  reward. 
As  if  he  were  a  servant,  and  labor  his  lord. 
He  would  do  every  task  that  before  him  was  set 
"With  his  might,  and  the  wages  of  work  would  forgot 
In  the  pleasure  of  work,  never  counting  it  vain 
That  he  wearied  his  body,  and  wasted  his  brain. 
Without  recompense  fit ;  since  instinctive  he  knew 
That  the  best  compensation  for  service  most  true 
Is  but  had  in  the  serving  ;  that  wages  are  small, 
Be  they  measureless  even,  if  wages  are  all. 


u 

i 


Yet  he  wondered  sometimes,  in  a  curious  way. 
How  to-morrow  would  differ  in  work  from  to  day ; 
What  its  spirit  would  be  ;  what  its  impulse  and  scope  ; 
What  its  faith  and  its  feeling,  its  heart  and  its  hope  : 
And  so  wondering  often,  he  stood,  as  it  seemed, 
At  the  door  of  a  duty  of  which  he  had  dreamed 
In  some  dream  of  great  doing,  —  a  something  so  broad 
That  it  reached  from  his  hand  to  tlie  ham^  of  his  God, 
Taking  in  by  its  infinite  measure  and  span 
The  upholding  of  truth,  the  uplifting  of  man, 


il'i' 


GERALDINE. 


11 


In  especial  degree  ;  but  he  shrank  as  with  fear 
From  the  possible  future,  unsought  and  too  near. 
He  was  conscious  that  on  in  the  years  he  would  find 
More  of  life  than  might  add  to  the  peace  of  his  mind  ; 
Yet  so  vaguely  he  felt  it,  so  faint  did  it  seem, 
T^at  he  counted  his  consciousness  only  a  dieam, 
And  gave  heed  to  it  rarely. 

One  evening  he  wrote 
In  such  mood  to  the  friend  of  his  heart,  —  just  a  note. 
When  the  veil  of  his  vision  half  lifted  to  show 
A  few  glimpses  beyond :  — 

"  That  you  love  me,  I  know  ; 
That  I  love  you,  my  darling,  you  feel  just  as  sure. 
And  that  both  of  our  loves  to  the  end  will  endure. 
But  the  end  ?    I  am  here  face  to  face  with  the  dread 
That  in  pathways  unlooked  for  my  feet  must  be  led  ; 
That  your  life  and  my  own  are  to  drift  far  apart 
As  the  true  from  the  false.     There's  a  cry  in  my  heart 
Of  regret  and  dismay  ;  for  you  measure  the  sum 
Of  my  wishes  •luc'  wants,  and  your  love  has  become 
The  one  thing  of  my  craving,  —  none  other  so  sweet 
And  so  strong  and  so  helpful.     None  other  could  meet 
Just  the  need  of  my  soul  as  yoii  meet  it.     I  feel 
That  you  feel  this  and  know  it ;  and  I  should  conceal 
Such  a  fancy  as  here  I  have  named,  but  that  you 
Have  a  faith  that  is  strong,  and  a  heart  that  is  true. 
And  will  say  I  am  morbid,  and  need  but  your  kiss 
To  return  me  the  hope  and  the  cheer  that  I  miss. 


12 


GERALDINE. 


l! 


*'  I  have  told  you  before  of  the  fancy  I  hold, 
That  my  work  is  to  be  by  some  duty  controlled 
Which  I  may  not  discover  till  years  have  gone  by ; 
And  perhaps  through  some  wilds  of  experience  I 
Must  pass  in  to  my  clear  field  of  labor.     My  way 
Has  been  sunny  and  bright  all  along  till  to-day ; 
But  I  know,  as  I  know  that  I  live,  that  there  are 
Heights  and  depths  in  my  nature  transcending  by  far 
All  that  yet  I  have  measured.     No  gift  is  for  nought. 
Be  it  even  to  suffer ;  and  sorrow  unsought 
May  bear  fruit  that  is  sweet  from  the  bitterest  seed. 
You  will  see  where  this  logic  must  certainly  lead : 
Any  gift  is  for  ultimate  use.     We  may  wait 
All  unknowing,  unheeding,  capacity  great 
To  enjoy  or  to  suffer ;  dead  levels  of  life 
May  reach  onward  before  us  ;  the  wearying  strife 
Of  the  days  may  go  on  without  increase  or  rest ; 
We  may  seem  of  but  commonplace  being  possessed. 
With  its  commonplace  ends  to  be  met :  but  in  time 
To  some  great  height  of  gladness  we  sudderx  may 

climb. 
Or  go  down  to  some  valley  of  grief,  where  the  dark 
Never  knows  a  sun's  rising  or  song  of  a  lark 
Singing  straight  into  heaven,  or  amid  all  the  din 
Of  the  e very-day  battle  some  peace  may  begin, 
Like  the  silence  of  God  in  its  regal  content. 
Till  we  learn  what  the  lesson  of  yesterday  meant. 


GERALBINE. 


13 


*'  But  forgive  me,  my  darling,  for  hinting  of  tears 
In  the  possible  future.     What  comes  with  the  years 
We'll  accept  as  we  may,  never  dreaming  of  pain 
In  the  present ;  believing  God's  morrows  are  gain, 
Be  they  cloudy  or  bright,  let  them  hold  what  they  will. 
We  are  wedded  to  life,  if  for  good  or  for  ill, 
Or  for  better  or  worse  ;  and  its  issues  must  be 
As  is  best  and  is  wisest  for  you  and  for  me, 
If  to-day  we  are  faithful  and  trustful  and  true. 
And  so  love  me,  my  darling,  as  I  must  love  you." 


( 


I 


li 


u 


GEBALDINE, 


n. 


iHi  J 


(( 


Shall  we  go  and  hear  Trent  to-night,  Bell,  at  the 
Hall?" 


Major  Mellen  was  making  his  afternoon  call 
On  the  witty  and  beautiful  Isabel  Lee, 
Whom  so  often  in  leisure  he  dropped  in  to  see. 
They  were  cousins,  by  kin  or  by  common  consent : 
If  the  former,  'twas  distant. 

"  You've  heard  about  Trent?  " 


li 


"  He  who  wrote  that  sweet  thing  in  the  last  magazine, 
Which  you  read  me   one  night,  — '  In   my  Passion 
Serene'?" 

"  Yes,  the  same.    We  were  friends,  he  and  I,  long  ago. 
As  I  told  you,  I  think.    He's  a  man  you  should  know,  — 
Can  talk  poetry,  prose,  metaphysics,  or  sing 
His  own  songs  to  you  even,  with  pathos  to  bring 
The  quick  tears  to  your  cheek.    He  has  sentiment  strong. 
As  you'll  see  by  and  by,  when  you  weep  at  his  song ; 
But  reform  is  his  hobby :  he'll  go  for  the  Right 
With  a  capital  R,  in  his  lecture  to-night ; 


i: 


GEBALDINE. 


15 


trong, 

1 

ng; 

1 

1 

And  they  say  as  a  speaker  his  powers  are  rare  — 
I've  not  heard  him  in  years.    But,  good  coz,  have  a  care ! 
He's  engaged  to  a  lovely  brunette,  with  dark  hair 
And  pink  cheeks,  like  yourself :  were  her  beauty  but 

blonde, 
i'ou  might  win  him  away  with  the  contrast." 

"Beyond 
Any  question  he's  safe,  my  dear  major.     The  man 
Who  can  sing  of  a  passion  serene,  as  he  can. 
Must  have  little  of  passion  to  stir.     I'm  afraid 
That  your  paragon  wouldn't  just  suit  me,  —  too  staid 
And  too  deep.     His  philosophy  matches  not  mine ; 
For  love  isn't  as  water.     You  sip  it  like  wine, 
And  grow  giddy  and  wild  with  the  tasting.    His  words, 
As  you  read  them,  were  sweet  as  the  singing  of  birds  ; 
But  I  like  not  his  faith."     And  her  finely  cut  face 
Had  a  look  that  was  puzzling.     The  very  least  trace 
Of  surprise  had  the  major's. 

"  You  do  not  suppose," 
He  remarked,  "  that  the  rhyme  of  a  verse-maker  shows 
His  true  feeling  ?    You  never  would  take  him  to  task 
For  philosophy,  sentiment,  worn  as  a  mask 
To  conceal  what  is  under?    A  woman  will  veil 
What  she  feels  in  expression  each  lover  must  fail 
To  unriddle  ;  and  poets  are  privileged,  too, 
As  to  much  that  they  say,  if  not  all  that  they  do. 
If  a  poet  pretend  to  write  out  of  his  heart. 
It  is  mainly  pretence  ;  and  the  very  best  art 


I< 


16 


GEBALBINE. 


\      \, 


That  he  has  is  in  making  men  weep  while  he  grieves 
Over  fiction  he  never  one  moment  believes, 
But  they  swallow  as  fact." 

She  looked  up  at  him  then 
"With  a  smile  that  he  read  as  a  sort  of  amen. 


ii  ii- 


Ii     I 


' '  And  so  be  it,  what  then  ?  * '  he  continued.    ' '  Why,  this : 
All  the  woes  of  a  poet  are  idle  ;  his  bliss 
Never  blisters  the  paper  he  pours  out  his  life  on  ; 
His  pen's  not  a  patent,  particular  siphon 
To  run  off  the  liquid  of  love,  in  his  verse, 
From  his  soul.     If  ecstatic,  he's  simply  unreal ; 
His  sonnets  of  love  are  to  something  ideal. 
As  the  love  that  he  sings." 

"  You  are  bitter,  now,  major ; 
Sarcastic  and  bitter  and  foolish.     I'll  wager 
You  once  took  to  sonnets  yourself,  when  more  callow. 
Don't  let  any  talent  you've  buried  lie  fallow  ; 
Turn  poet  again,  since  the  trick  of  deceit 
You  have  learned  (if  the  sum  of  all  poetry  sweet 
Be  pretence),  which  a  poet  must  practise,  and  cover 
Your  faith  and  your  feeling  when  you  are  a  lover. ' ' 


[ill 


She  laughed,  —  just  a  ripple  of  music  from  lips 
That  too  often  put  pearly  white  teeth  in  eclipse  ; 
'  And  he  echoed  her  mirth  rather  languidly. 

"Well, 
It  is  certain  I  never  plied  you,  Madame  Bell, 


GERALBINE. 


17 


With  my  sonnets,"  be  parried  ;  "  and  no  other  glances 

Than  yours  could  allure  me  to  making  advances 

Afoot  or  on  Pegasus  then.     I'll  not  say 

By  the  light  of  whose  look  and  whose  smi'  3 1  might  stray 

From  my  loyalty  now.     I  confess  I  am  grown 

Rather  fickle  to  love  and  to  truth,  as  is  known 

To  the  most  of  my  friends." 

And  a  smile  half-sarcastic 
Ran  over  his  features  so  mobile  and  plastic. 
"  But  this  fellow  Trent,  he's  as  true,  on  my  soul. 
As  the  needle,  much  boasted,  is  true  to  the  pole ; 
Not  but  that  a  bright  woman  like  you,  cousin  dear, 
With  an  iron  heart  in  her,  if  com'ng  too  near, 
Might  attract  him  and  w^in  him,  and  hold  him  a  while  ; 
But  he'd  turn  by  and  by  from  her  lessening  smile 
I  To  his  star  in  the  north.'* 

"  To  his.  passion  serene, 
iHe  would  say,  I  suppose.    That  remains  to  be  seen  "  — 


I"  And  be  tested?    Perhaps.     You  must  hear  him  to- 
night, 
ind  then  let  me  present  him.    His  themtj  may  be  trite  ; 
Jut  he'll  say  what  he  says  in  so  pleasing  r    i    ^ion, 
Ton' 11  think  to  be  fact,  philosophical  fiction 
?he  blankest,  —  at  least  for  a  little.     No  doubt, 
'hen  the  ring  of  his  words  into  silence  dies  out, 
^ou  will  question  your  faith,  and  will  count  it  absurd, 
id  be  freed  from  it  quite.     But  the  song  of  a  bird 


liWrr 


I  >     t 


18 


GERALDINE. 


a 


You  believe  when  you  hear  it  (though  haply  it  sing 
Of  some  hope  whose  fruition  no  morrow  may  bring) 
For  the  music  that's  in  it ;  and  Trent  has  a  voice 
That  may  even  your  sensitive  hearing  rejoice. 
You  will  go  if  I  call  for  you  early  ?  " 

"  I'm  free 
To  confess  I  would  like  this  young  poet  to  see, 
Since  you  paint  him  so  warmly.     Invite  him  to  sup 
With  us  after  the  lecture.     I'll  brew  him  a  cup 
Of  sweet  compliments,  if  he  deserve  it,  and  learn 
What  he  thirsts  for  the  most  from  the  world  ih  return 
For  his  gifts  to  the  world,  —  whether  praises  or  pence  ; 
Whether  garlands  of  roses,  or  blossoms  of  sense  ; 
Whether  wooing  or  worship.     Your  geniuses  crave 
Very  much  of  their  friends  :  you  must  serve  them  as  slave, 
Or  cajole  them  as  equal,  with  flattery  sweet 
To  their  taste  ;  you  must  fawningly  lie  at  their  feet. 
Or  devotedly  feed  them  with  bonbons.     The  more 
You  bestow,  will  they  ask.     They're  a  terrible  bore 
To  your  patience,  and  make  a  most  liberal  drain 
On  your  pity." 

"  Be  merciful.  Bell !     It  is  plain 
That  you're  jealous  of  genius.    Such  comments  as  those 
I  must  flatly  resent."    And  he,  laughing,  arose. 
"  For  we  should  not  be  blamed,  who  are  pets  of  the  stars 
And  the  heirs  of  the  gods.     Any  failing  that  mars 
Our  strict  beauty  of  life  is  a  fault  half  divine." 
And  with  playful  assumption,  and  graceful  incline 
Of  the  head  in  adieu,  he  departed. 


GERALDTNE. 


19 


Her  look 
Of  amusement  departed  as  well,  and  she  took 
From  tlie  table  a  volume  of  verse  that  a  friend 
For  her  reading  had  lately  been  thoughtful  to  send,  — 
A  collection  of  poems  as  varied  in  tone 
As  in  merit.     ]Jut  one  of  its  pages  alone, 
As  she  absently  turned  them,  arrested  her  thought,  — 
A  few  stanzas  of  sentiment,  common,  but  fraught 
With  a  passionate  longing  some  time  to  be  met 
In  the  hope  of  the  poet.     The  name  that  was  set 
At  the  end  caught  her  eye  ere  attention  she  lent 
To  the  poem  itself  :  it  was  Percival  Trent ; 
And  the  title  prefixed  to  the  verse  chanced  to  be 
iBut  suggestive  of  meaning.     It  ran  :  — 


BY  THE  SEA. 

I  stood  one  day  beside  the  sounding  sea, 
Amid  a  treeless  waste  of  barren  sand ; 

The  billowy  breezes  soft  blew  over  me, 
And  wooed  me  sweetly  with  their  kisses  bland. 

A  subtle  something  lingered  in  their  breath, 
And  charmed  me  long  to  glad  f orgetf  ulness : 

I  thought  no  more  of  failure,  pain,  and  death, 
No  more  I  dreaded  weakness  and  distress. 


Far,  far  away  the  glistening  billows  gleamed, 
A-splendor  with  the  summer's  silver  light; 


20 


GERALDINE. 


And,  looking  seaward,  blissfully  I  dreamed 
Of  balmy  islands  somewhere  out  of  sight. 

And  fondly  still,  witL  kisses  warm  and  sweet, 
The  breezes  wooed  me  to  a  calm  content ; 

While  ocean,  sounding  softly  at  my  feet, 
Its  tuneful  charm  to  the  half-silence  lent. 

So  with  me  ever,  as  I  weary  stand, 
And  look  far  out  upon  the  waters  wide, 

I  catch  some  hint,  in  all  the  breezes  bland. 
Of  shady  isles  that  somewhere  yonder  hide. 

Where  now  I  wait,  a  dreary  waste  may  be, 
With  no  green  thing  to  glad  my  longing  eyes; 

Far,  far  before,  across  the  sounding  sea, 
Are  hid  the  balmy  isles  of  Paradise. 


As  she  read,  her  quick  soul  e?iught  the  cry  of  unrest 
Welling  up  through  the  words,  from  a  hungering  breast, 
And  went  answering  out :  for  she  stood,  as  it  seemed, 
By  a  waste  of  wild  water  whose  billows  ne'er  gleamed 
With  the  light  of  a  sail  bringing  gladness  and  peace  ; 
And  she  longed,  with  a  longing  that  never  might  cease 
Till  she  neared  their  glad  haven  of  infinite  calm 
And  content,  for  the  Paradise  Islands  of  Balm. 
Could  ifrbe  that  across  the  wide  deep,  and  beyond 
All  its  possible  shipwreck,  there  waited  the  fond 
Wooing  breezes  of  faith  and  of  love  ?  Would  they  seem 
To  her  ever  as  more  than  a  vanishing  dream  ? 


VLiU 


OERALDINE. 


21 


Would  she  find  in  their  lingering  kisses  a  quiet 
From  doubt  and  distrust  that  forever  ran  riot 
WitLin  her?    Would  hunger  of  heart,  and  the  pain 
Of  unsatisfied  want,  and  the  wearisome  reign  . 
\  Of  regret,  have  an  end  ? 

So  she  questioned,  and  read 
'Yet  again  and  again  the  brief  stanzas  that  led 
[To  a  vision  of  loneliness  dreary  :  — 

A  man 

I  Standing  there  by  the  sea  where  the  sand-reaches  ran 
[To  slip  under  its  waves  and  be  hidden  from  view ; 
^ar  before  him  the  shimmering  billows  of  blue 
Jlending  on  with  the  tint  of  the  sky ;  not  a  sail 
[n  the  distance  to  hint  of  a  cheer-giving  hail ; 
Tot  a  bird  flying  over,  with  glint  of  its  wings 
^o  recall  the  sweet  song  that  some  dear  singer  sings  ; 
Lud  behind  him  no  hills  with  their  glories  of  green, 
Lnd  a  ribbon  of  silver  soft  winding  between  ; 
)nly  dull,  level  reaches  of  dry,  barren  sand 
sloping  up  from  the  sea,  with  no  sign  of  the  hand 
)f  a  fellow  in  sight,  not  a  house,  nor  a  tree, 
)nly  solitude,  silence,  and  dreariness  ;  he, 
^Vith  his  hungering  eyes,  looking  out  on  the  main, 
\Vith  a  longing  of  soul  like  the  passionate  pain 
>f  a  lover  unloved,  —  looking  out  to  behold 
par  away  in  the  future,  whose  billows  have  rolled 

''eary  years  at  his  feet,  the  fulfilment  of  life, 
The  incoming  of  love,  like  a  i>eace  after  strife 


oo 


GERALDINE. 


Of  loug  lasting,  the  ultimiite  gladness  of  tlmo 
Where  the  gladness  and  peace  are  forever  sublime. 

Yen  may  read  all  she  rcau  \vithoiit  seeing  as  much 
As  she  saw  :  it  may  be  that  the  delicate  touch 
Of  her  fancy  is  wanting  ;  the  mood  that  was  hers 
Mtiy  not  move  you  witli  sensitive  impulse  that  stirs 
To  each  breath  of  expression  ;  no  absolute  need 
May  possess  you,  and  hold  you,  l'11  all  that  you  read. 
While  you  thrill  in  its  holding,  gives  hint  of  reply 
And  revealing.     The  fact  matters  not. 


By  and  by 
She  arose  from  her  vision,  came  back  to  herself, 
And  the  volume  laid  carelessly  by  on  a  shelf. 
"  It  is  idle,"  she  thought,  "  to  make  pretence  of  woe 
In  this  fashion.     No  rhymes  of  a  verse-maker  show 
His   true   feeling:   the   major  was   right."     And  she 

smiled. 
"  This  new  poet  my  sympathy  quick  has  beguiled 
Without  any  deserving.     It  may  be  he  missed 
For  a  moment  the  touch  of  some  lips  he  had  kissed 
Loug  ago  ;  or  it  may  be  he  felt  but  a  blind, 
Common  craving  for  something  beyond  ;  or  his  mind 
May  have  taken  the  most  of  its  dolorous  tone 
From  a  liver  disordered ;  or  even  my  own 
Vital  organs  may  suffer,"  — but,  looking  across 
To  the  opposite  mirror,  she  noted  no  loss 


GERALDINE. 


23 


Of  the  color  of  health  in  her  beautiful  face, 
Aud  she  laughed  at  the  fanciful  thought. 

For  the  space 
Of  a  half-hour  she  sat  there  alone  in  the  room, 
Till  the  shadows  of  twilight  had  gathered  to  gloom. 
In  a  reverie  deep.     The  rare  smile  faded  out. 
Giving  place  to  a  look  as  of  questioning  doubt ; 
And  the  eyes  that  had  warmed  many  hearts  with  their 

glow 
Had  a  tenderer  light,  as  if  tear-drops  could  flow 
Without  warning.     Again  she  was  living  the  past, 
AVith  no  cloud  of  regret  o'er  its  loveliness  cast ; 
But  just  ready  to  bloom  were  her  roses  of  youth : 
She  had  faith  in  herself,  she  believed  in  the  truth, 
She  could  trust  in  her  kind. 

To  be  true  to  the  best 
That  is  in  us,  nor  falter  nor  fail  in  the  test, 
Let  whatever  mav  come,  —  this  is  measurement  just 
Of  the  sum  ol  our  life  ;  to  keep  safely  in  trust 
All  the  good  that  we  have,  and  to  answer  at  length 
For  our  being  and  doing,  the  weakness  or  strength 
Of  our  hope  and  our  help  in  the  varying  strife,  — 
There  is  nothing  beside  in  this  problem  of  life. 


Had  she  faltered  and  failed  in  the  test  we  have  named  ? 
If  she  had,  by  the  perfect  alone  be  she  blamed. 
It  is  easy  to  falter  and  stumble  and  fall ; 
But  a  pitiful  God  is  the  Father  of  all. 


Mt  I 


24 


GERALDINE. 


III. 


■':  I 


''?Iy  Own  Geraldine  Hope, — 

"  It  is  far  in  the  night ; 
But  I'm  wakeful  and  restless,  and  so  I  will  write 
A  few  words  for  your  reading  before  I  retire. 
I  have  had  a  long  evening,  yet  short. 

' '  My  desire 
For  an  audience  large  and  attentive  was  met ; 
I  have  never  faced  one  more  inspiriting  yet. 
When  I  rose  to  my  feet,  the  same  tremor  possessed  me. 
The  same  idle  terrors  inthralled  and  oppressed  me. 
That  often  I  feel  in  the  face  of  a  crowd  ; 
But  they  vanished,  so  soon  as  I,  trembling,  had  bowt ', 
And  had  uttered  a  word. 

"  It  is  regal  to  stand 
And  to  sway  every  will  with  a  wave  of  your  hand. 
Or  a  shade  of  your  voice.     It  is  gladness  supreme 
To  be  thrilled  for  a  time  to  the  final  extreme 
Of  your  consciousness,  through  the  quick  thrill  of  your 

speech. 
And  to  know  of  a  certainty  strong  that  you  reach 
And  take  hold  of  the  hearts  of  your  hearers  ;  to  feel 
Their  quick  thrilling  responsive  ;  to  know  they  are  leal 
To  the  kingship  within  you. 


GERALDINE. 


25 


*'  The  gift  that  is  mine, 
To  a  certain  extent,  is  a  dower  divine. 
And  I  shrink  from  its  use,  I  confess,  now  and  then. 
It  is  such  a  grand  mission,  —  to  move  upon  men. 
To  determine  their  thought  and  their  faith,  to  impel 
Them  to  action,  to  guide  and  direct  them,  to  tell 
Where  they  miss  the  true  path,  where  the  pitfalls  may 

wait. 
To  beget  stronger  love  for  the  right,  stronger  hate 
For  the  wrong.     And,  however  we  work,  at  the  best 
It  is  little  we  do  that  is  well ;  for  the  rest. 
May  we  lightly  be  judged ! 

' '  I  began  to  recite 
The  events  of  the  evening.     Pray  pardon  the  flight 
Of  my  pen  in  this  manner. 

"  The  lecture  was  long, 
But  was  brief  to  my  thinking.     I  found  in  the  throng 
Of  intelligent  faces  a  few  like  your  own,  — 
Of  the  ausweriug  sort,  that  one  seems  to  have  known 
A  long  time  ;  that  respond  to  whatever  you  say 
In  a  hearty  and  very  encouraging  way  ; 
That  a  speaker  soon  learns  to  pick  out  here  and  there, 
And  to  give  them,  perhaps,  an  unduly  large  share 
Of  his  special  attention.     He  reads  the  effect 
Of  his  argument  in  them  ;  he  comes  to  expect 
For  his  favorite  thoughts  recognition  from  these 
That  the  mass  may  not  give :   it  would  seem  that  he 
sees 


^! 


26 


GEliALUINE. 


It  '^ 


ftHi 


m 


nm\M 


Not  the  many  who  hear  him,  but  ouly  the  few 
Who  respond. 

"  By  the  side  of  a  man  whom  I  knew 
Years  ago  was  a  face  of  this  type  (not  a  face 
To  be  quickly  forgotten  when  met),  with  a  grace 
As  of  sorrow  outgrown,  but  remembereu,  —  a  glow 
Of  unconscious  expression  illuming  it  so 
As  almost  to  transfigure  it  often.     It  had 
A  half -hungering  look  in  repose,  as  if  sad 
Were  the  soul  underneath  it.     'Tis  needless  to  add 
'Twas  a  woman's,  —  a  wife's  or  a  widow's  you'd  guess 
Without  reasoning  why  ;  not  because  there  is  less 
Of  the  sweetness  of  girlhood  within  it   but  f"  n'e 
Of  the  woman's  completeness  of  beauty. 

"Before 
I  had  finished  my  lecture,  I  half  comprehended 
The  secret  hid  under  the  face,  and  befriended 
The  womanly  need,  that  so  eagerly  cried 
In  a  speechless  appeal  to  be  soul-satisfied, 
In  my  thought.    When  the  lecture  had  come  to  an  end, 
And  the  people  were  slowly  departing,  her  friend 
Major  Mellen  presented  me  to  her. 

"I've  mentioned 
The  major,  perhaps?     He's  a  clever-intentioned, 
Uncertain,  erratic,  and  cynical  man, 
Who  will  ridicule  rJways  whatever  he  can ; 
Who  is  recreant,  either  in  word  or  in  fact, 
To  all  truth  ;  who  can  never  make  up  what  he  lacked 


GEEALDINE, 


27 


As  a  boy,  when  I  knew  bim  tit  first,  —  a  true  sense 
Of  respect  for  things  holy  ;  who  sees  a  pretence 
In  all  earnestness,  looks  for  deceit  or  a  lie 
In  all  candor,  and  laughs,  with  a  tear  in  his  eye, 
At  all  sentiment  sober ;  a  man  whom  I  shrink 
From  at  times,  yet  who  often  compels  me  to  think 
That  I  like  him,  so  shrewd  arc  his  comments,  so  keen 
Is  the  wit  that  he  flashes.     I  never  have  seen 
Any  human  enigma  more  puzzling  than  he, 
And  I'm  glad  you  don't  know  him,  my  dear. 

"Mrs.  Lee 
Is  a  woman  of  wit  and  of  rare  repartee, 
With  a  lightness  of  speech  that  quite  often  belies 
The  suggestion  of  sorro  y  that  lurks  in  her  eyes. 
They  insisted  that  I  should  go  with  them  to  supper, 
(She  lives,  let  me  say,  in  the  style  of  the  Upper 
Ten  Thousand,  who  dine  very  late,  and  sit  down 
To  their  tea  at  a  time  when  the  rest  of  the  town 
Is  asleep  :)  I  accepted,  in  hopes  that  a  walk 
In  the  chilly  night  air,  and  the  major's  bright  talk 
For  an  hour  afterward,  would  beguile  me  to  sleep. 
And  the  major  was  witty  and  droll,  if  not  deep, 
Making  odd  little  turns  of  the  points  of  my  speech, 
And  applying  them  oddly  and  keenly,  till  each 
Of  us  laughed  to  the  echo. 

"  The  widow  laughs  well, 
(She's  a  widow,  I  know,  though  I  couldn't  quite  tell 
How  I  know  it ;)  has  read  the  best  authors  in  prose 


28 


GEBALDINE. 


I  \ 


'A    .. 
9(| 


And  in  poetry,  current  and  classic,  and  knows 

When  to  quote  them  and  how,  which  is  rather  uncommon, 

I'm  tempted  to  say,  nowadays,  in  a  woman. 


il  ..,; 


' '  A  right  merry  season  we  had  at  the  table  : 
I  know  'twould  amuse  you  in  turn,  were  I  able 
To  write  out  the  many  bright  things  that  were  said. 
But  all  wit  loses  sparkle  and  glow  when  it's  read, 
And  I'm  not  very  good,  I  confess,  at  repeating 
The  many  hon  mots  that  I  hear  at  a  meeting 
Like  this,  of  a  few  who  have  sharpened  their  wits 
By  long  practice. 

' '  I  fancy  the  god  of  mirth  sits 
With  his  soul  in  the  shadow,  just  ready  to  weep ; 
For  so  many  I  know,  who  in  company  keep 
The  whole  roomful  a-roar,  ai'C  yet  closest  akin 
To  the  pathos  of  being,  and  oft  enter  in 
To  the  innermost  temple  of  sorrow,  where  tears 
Never  gather  and  fall,  and  no  grief  of  the  years 
Ever  voices  itself  to  the  world.     The  great  woe 
Of  a  life  (or  I  sometimes  have  reasoned  it  so) 
May  not  be  a  great  loss  that  it  ever  has  known, 
But  a  very  great  want  that  has  silently  grown 
From  an  undefined  need  to  the  mastering  strength 
Of  a  hunger  unfed,  and  that  sways  one  at  length 
With  an  absolute  will,  —  not  a  grief  to  be  told 
To  a  friend  with  a  sigh,  but  to  have  and  to  hold 
All  unshared  to  the  end. 


i 

1 


GERALDINE. 


29 


"  But  enough  of  my  fancies. 
You'll  come  to  believe  that  a  hidden  romance  is 
Beneath  this  new  face  I  have  met,  if  suggestion 
Of  sorrow  be  followed  up  thus.     Beyond  question 
The  woman  has  suffered,  —  a  quite  common  case, 
Very  likely,  though  hers  is  an  uncommon  face  ; 
And  it  mav  be  her  life  has  known  nothing  of  lack 
But  in  losing.     I've  promised  to  call,  going  back 
From  the  West,  and  may  more  of  her  history  learn. 


*'  It  is  far  in  the  night,  and  to  sleep  I  must  turn, 
For  my  eyelids  are  heavy  at  last.     May  my  dreams 
Be  of  you  and  your  love  !     Amid  much  that  but  seems 
What  it  is  not,  I  know  that  my  darling  is  true 
As  the  truth  I  believe  and  proclaim  ;  and  to  you 
The  unrest  of  my  heart  ever  turns  for  content : 
So  be  tender  and  true  to 

"Your 

"Percival  Trent." 


30 


GERALDINE. 


■■,* 

.■■•'?• 


IV. 


11 


N    ''pi. 

If  it  i\m 


I 


It 


So  he  called,  as  he  promised,  again  and  again  ; 

And  she  met  him  with  grace  very  charming.    Few  men 

Ever  failed  to  be  won  by  the  winning  repose 

Of  her  manner,  to  strong  admiration.     The  clos:; 

Of  each  call  came  too  soon.     He  would  gladly  have 

staid 
Even  longer,  although  it  is  true  he  delayed 
His  departure  to  etiquette's  limits  extreme. 
He  had  met  many  women  ;  had  thought  one  supreme 
O'er  them  all  for  her  beauty,  her  sweetness,  and  grace  : 
But  a  charm  quite  elusive  shone  out  of  this  face 
That  so  puzzled  his  reading  ;  a  winsomeness  new 
In  its  every  expression  his  interest  drew  ; 
And  the  touch  of  her  hand  as  she  bade  him  adieu 
Was  magnetic. 

Their  talk  was  of  places  and  books 
At  the  first.     He  had  been  in  some  half -hidden  nooks 
Of  the  world,  and,  describing  their  beauties,  would 

glow 
With  their  memories  rare.     'Twas  his  fortune  to  know- 
Men  and  women  who  write  what  the  rest  of  us  read  ; 
And  a  word  about  boolvs  would  so  easily  lead 


GERALD  INK. 


81 


To  some  personal  gossip,  they  finally  fell 
Into  serious  thought  as  to  what  the  books  tell 
Of  the  life  und  the  love  of  their  authors. 

"I  doubt 
If  woman  or  n:  an  ever  wrote  much  without 
Weaving  in  their  own  story,"  she  said.     "  I  Ix^ieve 
In  reality  rather  than  fiction.     Deceive 
As  some  may  the  great  public,  who  readily  yield 
To  fictitious  profession,  there  must  be  concealed 
In  each  novel  or  poem  that  touches  the  heart, 
And  takes  hold  of  the  sj^mpathies  strongest,  a  part 


Of  the  writer's  own  beiuo:  and  doin<r. 


>J 


"I  hold 
To  another  opinion.     The  poet  is  bold 
In  his  fancy  ;  the  novelist  free  in  the  flight 
Of  imaginings  many,"  he  answered  with  quite 
An  emphatic  expression,  yet  speaking  as  one 
Who  was  weighing  his  words.     "And,  when  you  have 

begun 
To  determine  where  poet  and  novelist  blend 
With  the  persons  they  picture,  there's  never  an  end 
To  the  questions  arising  ;  xor  either  may  be 
As  prolific  in  different  pictures  as  he 
Who  is  painting  the  crowd  as  they  come.     So  diverse 
Are  the  characters  shown,  that  it  couldn't  be  worse  — 
As  a  failure,  I  mean  —  if  the  painter  should  try 
To  be  each  of  the  persons  lie's  p  '    ted.     And  why 
Should  we  single  out  one  of  the  many  poitrayed, 


I! 


'i 


u, 


32 


GERALDINE. 


' 


iiiii 


And  declare  that  this  one  of  the  many  is  ma 
Of  the  poet's  own  life,  or  the  novelist's?  " 

"Now 
You  have  taken  to  argument,  I  must  allow 
That  my  view   appears   weak,"  she  returned  with  a 

laugh. 
*'  But  a  woman  ought  never  to  argue ;  for  half 
That  she  knows  is  beyond  demonstration.     She  feels 
It  to  be,  and  so  knows  it  to  be  ;  and  conceals 
Or  confesses  her  meagre  resources  for  knowing, 
As  moved  by  her  whim.    Yet  there  may  be  a  show- 


ing 


Of  reason  in  what  I  have  felt  to  be  so. 
Out  of  nothing  d'^  thing  has  been  made,  as  we  know, 
That  is  good.     Can  a  poet  produc(i  out  of  nought 
What  is  living  and  real  ? ' ' 

She  paused. 

"  But  his  thought 
Is  a  something,"  he  said,  "  and  i  .om  this  he  produces 
The  beings  that  live  and  that  love.     In  the  uses 
Of  forms  he  is  led  to  make  copy  of  men 
And  of  women  he  sees  round  about  him  ;  but,  when 
He  puts  soul  into  these,  it  is  never  the  soul 
Of  another,  not  even  his  own." 

"  Then  the  whole 
Of  his  work  is  from  fancy  alone  ?    If  he  write 
With  a  heartache  that  throbs  into  words,  'tis  the  flight 
Of  his  fancy-led  thought,  not  a  passionate  cry 


GERALIDNE. 


33 


Out  of  sorrow  he  feels  ?    And  the  many  who  sigh 
As  they  read  him  are  wasteful  of  sympathy?  " 

Less 
Of  doubt  did  her  words  than  her  manner  express, 
And  he  felt  that  she  studied  him,  striving  to  learn 
Rather  more  than  his  answers  might  yield,  in  return 
For  her  questions. 

' '  Perhaps  I  should  hardly  declare 
What  you  say  to  be  true  altogether.     A  share 
Of  the  woe  of  the  world  may  creep  into  its  verse 
Or  its  prose  ;  but  I  doufjt  if  a  man  will  rehearse 
Any  grief  of  his  own  wliile  a  grief  it  remains, 
lie  may  journey  beyond  it,  may  think  of  its  pains 
As  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  may  write  of  it  then 
AVith  a  sort  of  contempt  for  its  sacredness.     "When 
It  is  part  of  to-day,  he  will  shut  it  away 
From  the  gaze  of  the  crowd.     I  admit  that  he  may 
Seem  to  write  of  what  is  in  the  present,  that  urges 
The  blood  in  his  heart  to  impetuous  surges  : 
The  heart  may  be  throbbing,  perchance,  while  he  writes 
What  your  sympathy  moves,  your  emotion  excites, 
But  from  sympathy  just  like  your  own.     He  may  feel, 
I  AYhen  he  writes  with  a  heartache  he  does  not  conceal. 
To  the  full  the  deep  sorrow  he  breathes  ;  but  be  sure 
'Tis  a  grief  that  is  fleeting,  that  will  not  endure, 
That  is  born  of  his  fancy,  —  the  same  as  your  own 
While  you  read.     And  why  not  ?     Is  the  reader  alone 
j  To  be  moved  by  the  syllables  tender,  the  sobs 


84 


GERALDINE. 


WcUiug  up?     I  urn  certain  the  writer's  heart  throbs 
Over  sorrows  of  fancy  as  if  tlicy  were  true 
And  intense  as  the  bitterest  life  ever  knew." 


Iliii!, 


I 

i  i 

i 

.>  1 

ill 

! 

1 

1 

! 

! 

..(;;;.•:;■/ 

iiii 

it 

11 

iii 

"And  how,  then,  may  it  be  with  his  longings?    Are 

these 
But  the  sigh  of  a  moment,  the  breath  of  a  breeze 
Of  desire  blowiniT  over  him  ?     Nothinijf  he  holds 
Until  it  into  beauty  of  being  unfolds. 
And  makes  glad  some  great  need  of  iiis  heart  ? ' ' 

Then  ho  smiled. 

"  Are  you  striving  with  logical  art 
Thus  to  prove  me  all  wrong  ?     It  is  in  my  beliefs 
That  the  sorrow  of  sorrows,  the  grief  of  all  griefs, 
Is  the  sorrow,  the  grief,  of  a  mastering  need. 
Yet  a  poet  may  syllable  this  ;  and  indeed 
I've  no  doubt  that  the  longings  of  poets  are  real 
As  things  that  they  long  for  are  vague  and  ideal. 
'Tis  here  that  they  reach  after  beauty  and  light 
Far  beyond  and  above  all  that  gladdens  their  sight 
In  the  present ;  and  thus  thdy  uplift  the  whole  race 
With  their  longing  and  hoping  and  striving." 

His  face 
Growing  earnest,  she  waited  expectant. 

"To  long 
For  some  good  that  we  have  not  is  noble.     The  song 
'xhat  incites  to  proud  doing  was  penned  with  some  hill 


GERALBINE. 


35 


Of  ciKleavor  uprising  before  ;  and  the  will 
To  win  glory  and  crowning  sprang  out  of  desire : 
They  only  grow  liL'li)ful  and  strong  wiio  aspire. 
There  is  only  one  road  to  the  mountains  of  bliss, 
And  it  leads  from  the  levels  of  longing." 

"  But  this 
Is  a  general  view  you  are  taking,"  she  said. 
Interrupting  him  here  with  a  smile.     "  I  have  read 
Of  some  longings  more  special :  their  voice,  like  a  call 
From  a  hungering  soul,  on  my  heart  seemed  to  fall, 
And  to  wake  a  response.     It  was  want  crying  out 
To  the  plenty  of  life  to  be  filled." 

"  Beyond  doubt 
You  have  heard  such  a  cry.     Every  soul  not  ascetic 
Does  hear  it.     The  want  of  the  world,  so  pathetic, 
So  broad,  comprehends  and  embraces  all  needs. 
Individual,  hidden,  and  silent.     The  greeds 
Of  the  world  are  past  naming  ;  the  hunger  and  thirst 
By  which  men  are  so  often  and  sorely  accursed 
Are  as  legion  :  yet  some  one  shall  cry  of  his  lack, 
And  at  once  the  sad  voices  come  echoing  back, 
As  if  truly  this  one  had  thus  spoken  for  each, 
AVhen  he  wants  something,  maybe,  that  hangs  within  reach 
Of  the  rest,  and  they  think  it  is  nought." 

"But  there  may 
Be  a  want  that  is  common  to  many.     The  sway 
Of  one  mastering  need,  as  j^ou  term  it,  may  be 
As  Gupreme  within  you  as  it  is  withiu  me : 


f 


ill 
I; 


fi 


\W,' 


m 


M 


ri 


m 


86 


GERALDINE. 


It  may  hold  just  as  firmly  nil  sensitive  souls. 
"We  walk  different  paths  ;  but  the  very  same  goals 
Are  to  gladden  us  all  by  and  by." 

' '  But  no  twain 
Arc  exactly  alike  in  their  longing.     The  pain 
Of  a  wearing  unrest  in  each  heart  is  a  thing 
By  itself,  as  by  self  to  be  borne.     One  may  sing 
A  glad  poean  of  praise  that  tlic  many  outring 
In  re-echoing  notes  ;  but  the  song  they  are  ringing 
Had  something  his  own,  while  his  gladness  was  singing, 
It  lacks  from  the  lips  of  another. 

"I  stand 
By  the  oneness  of  each  in  himself.     As  the  hand 
That  I  hold  to  the  world  is  my  own,  though  it  bear 
A  good  gift  of  which  all  may  claim  portion  and  share  ; 
So  the  poet  may  bring  of  his  riches  to  such 
As  are  needy,  and  each  may  be  richer  by  much. 
In  the  taking  of  what  was  his  rigb.t,  as  it  seems, 
Out  of  common  bestowal.     But  longings  and  dreams 
That  embody  the  gift  are  the  poet's  alone : 
They  are  harvest,  perhaps,  of  some  seed  he  has  sown 
In  the  past.     And  no  life  may  be  like  his  so  near 
As  to  garner  the  same  from  its  sowing. ' ' 

*'Ifear 
You  are  thinking  too  broadly  to  touch  the  one  thought 
I  have  had,  and  to  answer  it  now.     I  have  sought 
To  be  sure  of  too  much,"  she  replied.     "  Let  it  go 
Till  I've  pondered  it  further.     You  certainly  know 


GEJiALDTNE. 


37 


Of  my  right  ag  a  woman  to  have  the  last  word. 

What  you  say  may  be  true  :  if  it  be,  1  have  erred 

In  concediug  to  poets  the  eominoner  woes 

That  aflHct  and  make  sad.     I  am  bound  to  suppose 

That  you  know  of  the  faets."    And  he  saw  she  had  tired 

Of  their  soberer  talk,  and  so  simply  desired 

By  her  badinage  mild  to  glide  off  from  the  theme. 


He  but  laughed,  and  made  merry. 

"  To-night,  if  I  dream 
Of  some  hunger  of  heart,"  he  remaiked,  as  he  said 
His  adieu,  "  I  shall  know  an  invisible  thread 
From  the  heart  of  another  my  hungering  thrills  ; 
That  my  want  is  the  twin  of  your  own  ;  that  our  wills 
Are  akin,  and  our  needs?  " 

lie  was  reading  her  eyes 
As  he,  bantering,  questioned  her  thus  for  replies 
That  her  tongue  might  not  syllable.     Nothing  outshone 
From  their  depths  that  gave  answer  complete. 

*'I  have  known 
What  it  is  to  be  hungry  of  soul,"  she  replied. 
Speaking  gravely  again  :  "so  have  you,  and,  beside 
Us,  a  host  of  the  men  and  the  women  who  greet 
The  gay  world  with  a  smile.     It  is  easy  to  cheat 
The  blind  mass  into  thinking  we're  glad  and  content. 
It  is  hard  to  walk  on  with  what  fate  may  have  sent 
For  your  company,  —  hunger  and  doubt  and  unrest,  — 
And  yet  keep  the  heart  steady  that  beats  in  your  breast ; 


.^1  'if 

IF'  ' 


IL|J,il«y  M 


38 


GERALBINE. 


M 


II  { 


Till! 
i^'l!! 


'    I, 

'  m 


;! 


It  is  hard  to  feel  lonesome  for  love  that  is  kind 
To  the  uttermost,  tender  and  trustful,  and  l)lind 
To  your  ugliness,  quiek  to  discover  your  need, 
And  a  spendthrift  in  giving  itself." 

* '  May  I  plead 
For  one  boon  ?  ' '  said  he  eagerly  :  ' '  this,  —  be  my  friend, 
As  I'd  like  to  be  yours.     Let  me  make  gjme  amend, 
If  I  may,  for  the  lack  that  you  feel  now  and  then, 
And  regret.    I'll  be  frank  :  there  is  much  that  some  it.  a 
Could  bestow  that  I  have  not ;  the  all  I  can  give 
Is  but  little,  —  a  friendship  that  pledges  to  live 
While  you  care  for  it,  sympathy  certain  and  strong. 
And  perchance  here  and  there  the  glad  note  of  a  song 
In  your  life  as  you  find  the  way  weary  and  sore. 
I  would  give  nothing  less  :  I  can  give  nothing  more.' 


>> 


>l<[tH 


"  It  is  much, ' '  she  responded,  ' '  far  more  than  j^ou  think. 

When  a  wayfarer  thirsty  is  given  to  drink 

From  a  brook  where  the  many  may  come  and  be  filled, 

lie  is  glad  as  if  never  another  were  thrilled 

By  its  current  of  blessing." 

She  held  out  her  hand, 
And  the  pressure  he  jave  it  returned. 

' '  Understand, 
We  are  friends  while  you  wish  it.     Good-night." 

For  what  came 
In  the  track  of  all  this,  they  were  hardly  to  blame. 
There's  a  logic  in  life  that  is  stubborn  as  fate : 
We  must  learn  it,  each  one,  though  our  study  be  late. 


QERALDINE. 


89 


V. 


>> 


That  Geraldine  Hope  was  indeed  a  coquette, 

Xot  a  few  were  persuaded  who  met  her,  and  yet 

Without  reason  sufficient.     Her  smile,  it  is  true, 

Was  bewitching,  and  freely  bestowed.     Then  she  knew 

How  to  charm  in  those  delicate  ways  that  suggest 

A  particular  feeling  of  interest.     Pressed 

For  some  cause  for  their  thought  as  concerning  her,  these 

Who  esteemed  her  the  least  were  at  fault.     By  degrees, 

As  they  knew  her  the  better,  they  came  to  see  under 

The  manner  so  wir'^ing  at  times,  and  to  wonder 

At  womanly  graces  disclosed,  at  the  will 

To  be  helpful  and  brave  ;  and  they  wondered  until 

They  were  champions  strong  of  her  truth. 

She  had  been 
Greatly  flattered  and  praised  ;  find  to  please,  and  to  win 
Admiration,  was  easy.     She  studied  nc  arts. 
But  was  just  her  own  natural  self.     If  the  hearts 
Of  men  yielded  her  homage  unsought,  none  could  say 
That  she  won  it  to  scorn,  or  that  he  was  tlie  prey 
Of  deceit  and  delusion.     No  lover  was  pained 
By  the  loss  of  a  love  that  he  never  had  gained 
But  in  idle  profession.    ■ 


.;'    ii 


40 


GERALBTNE, 


ml 


m  :::..;!: 


The  woman's  soul  in  her 
Was  noble  and  true.     To  be  won,  he  must  win  her 
With  truth  and  nobility  equal,  who  brought 
Her  his  heart  and  his  life,  and  her  heart  and  life  sought. 
And,  beside,  she  must  feel  that  he  stood  just  above 
Her  in  being  and  doing,  whose  life  and  whose  love 
Could  be  worthful  and  sweet,  and  in  nothing  below. 
So  she  waited  in  faith,  not  unwilling  to  go 
Through  the  years  quite  alone,  if  instead  she  must  lean 
On  an  arm  that  was  lower. 

And  thus  Geraldine 
By  her  suitors  abundant  had  failed  to  be  won, 
Until  Percival  Trent,  who  had  lately  begun 
To  be  known  of  the  world,  came  to  know  her,  and  hold 
Her  supreme  among  women.     His  loving  controlled 
Her  as  never  another's  had  done.     He  was  king 
Among  men,  in  her  sight,  from  the  first ;  and  the  ring 
That  he  gave  her  at  last  she  would  wear  to  the  end, 
Never  doubting. 

If  love  could  forever  but  lend 
To  its  object  the  glow  of  perfection,  how  sure 
Would  all  pledges  of  constancy  be  to  endure  I 
"Love  is  blind,"  men  have  said;  but  they  gravely 

mistake 
Who  believe  so.     Alas  that  it  is  not !     The  ache 
That  is  born  of  regret  would  not  vex  and  make  sad, 
If  true  love  could  not  see  ;  and  a  world  Avould  be  glad 
If  no  loving  looked  through  the  too  common  disguise 


-^anwpipiqw^.ijiip 


GEBALBINE. 


41 


Of  the  thing  winning  love,  and  with  grief-welling  eyes 
Saw  the  faults  that  lie  under.     We  sorrow  to  find 
That  our  friends  are  unworthy  ;  and  love  is  unkind 
For  revealing  the  fact,  with  its  vision  so  clear, 
That  each  life  has  its  blemishes.     Love  may  appear 
As  unseeing  as  marble,  yet  quiver  with  pain 
From  beholding  so  much  ;  and  the  bitterest  bane 
Of  the  years  will  be  found,  as  we  learn  what  they  teach, 
In  the  knowledge  that  love  gave  a  glamour  to  each  ; 
That  the  beauty  we  saw  could  not  always  abide, 
Nor  the  veil  of  our  faith  all  deformity  hide. 


Had  she  trusted  too  much  in  this  man  who  so  held 

All  her  life  in  his  hand  ?  who  so  surely  compelled 

Her  to  trust  him  and  love  him?    Not  hers  was  the 

question : 
No  doubt  troubled  her,  nor  the  faintest  suggestion 
Of  doubt.     He  was  hers  ;  she  was  his.     Before  God 
They  were  wedded  forever.     Their  way  might  be  broad 
In  tht  future,  or  narrow  :  it  could  not  prevent 
Them  from  walking  together  in  happy  content 
To  the  gate  that  leads  out  of  this  being.     Beyond 
There  should  dawn  an  eternity,  never  less  fond 
In  its  faith  and  its  love  ;  and  the  bliss  of  her  dream 
Should  be  endless  at  last  where  all  love  is  supreme. 

So  she  thought.     To  his  questioning  letter  she  made 
An  unquestioning  answer :  — 


42 


GERALLINE. 


' 
i 


m 


"Dear  heart,  I'm  afraid 
You  arc  working  too  hard,  aud  need  rest.     By  and  by 
You  will  smile  at  the  dread  you  have  named,  as  do  I. 
There  is  nothing  to  fear  in  a  love  that  is  strong 
And  content  as  is  ours.     If  the  time  should  be  long 
Ere  I  see  you  again,  I  should  never  once  doubt ; 
If  long  years  should  roll  by  us  uncertain,  without 
Bringing  word  of  remembrance  from  you,  I  should  know 
There  were  reason  for  silence,  and  patiently  go 
Up  and  down  at  ray  duties,  in  trust.     If  a  living, 
Abiding  affection  is  formed,  the  up-giving 
Is  perfect,  of  life  and  of  faith :  there  can  be 
Neither  question  nor  fear.     As  for  you  and  for  me, 
We  rely  on  a  love  that  is  higher  by  much 
Than  our  own  to  mould  ours,  and  to  keep  it.    The  touch 
Of  this  love  so  divine  adds  a  quality  rare 
To  our  own  ;  makes  it  pure  beyond  any  compare 
With  the  commoner  loves  ;  makes  it  lasting  and  sweet 
And  immortal. 

' '  I  think  there  can  be  no  defeat 
For  a  love  that  is  guarded  by  trust.     It  withstands 
Every  effort  of  cruel  and  violent  hands 
To  dethrone  it ;  it  rules  with  a  wonderful  might, 
Born  of  wealinoss  and  yielding  ;  it  strives  for  no  right 
But  the  right  to  bestow  of  its  largess  ;  it  speaks 
With  an  eloquent  tongue,  in  a  silence  that  seeks 
But  to  hear  the  dear  words  of  bestowal ;  it  waits 
For  the  gladness  of  time  that  its  faith  antedates, 


GERALDINE. 


43 


Aud  is  glad  in  its  waiting ;  it  patiently  bears 
Every  strain  of  the  years,  all  the  grief  and  the  cares 
They  may  bring  ;  it  is  faithful  and  true  to  the  end  : 
And  we  know  such  a  love,  I  am  certain,  my  friend. 

"  As  for  duty,  that's  God  speaking  plainly  to  each 
Of  his  work  in  the  world  ;  and  the  wider  the  reach 
Of  your  effort,  the  more  you  are  doing  for  men. 
Then  the  sweeter  will  be  your  reward.     So  what,  then, 
Does  it  matter  concerning  a  duty  to  come  ? 
Every  morrow  grows  out  of  to-day  ;  and  the  sum 
Of  the  future  is  made  from  the  present.     Whatever 
The  morrow  may  bring  will  depend  on  endeavor 
Put  forth  by  us  now.     If  to-day  we  are  strong 
In  the  right,  need  we  fear  that  a  possible  wrong 
In  the  future  will  find  us  unwilling  and  weak  ? 


"  Let  the  way  that  we  journey  be  rugged  and  bleak 
By  and  by :  we  may  smile  as  we  wander  to-day 
Where  the  roses  are  blowing,  and  fancy  the  way 
Is  forever  to  lead  amid  beauty  and  bloom. 
If  we  know  that  the  sunshine  will  vanish  in  gloom. 
Let's  be  glad  till  the  shadows  are  on  us. 

' '  No  man 
And  no  woman  of  right  should  the  coming  days  scan 
With  foreboding.    The  present  is  ours  ;  and  the  rest- 
That  is  God's.     He  will  care  for  his  own  as  is  best ; 
And  our  watching  is  worthless,  our  dread  is  in  vain. 


44 


GERALDTNE. 


Are  we  moulded  to  suffer?    The  possible  pain 
Will  not  easier  seem  for  expecting  it.     Waits 
Any  wretehedness  for  us  ?     The  hardest  of  fates 
May  be  sweetened  by  love  and  a  song  of  good  cheer, 
Like  a  psalm  in  the  night. 

"  There  is  nothing  so  clear 
To  me  ever,  dear  heart,  as  that  strength  will  be  lent, 
If  we  ask  it,  to  bear  what  the  Lord  shall  have  sent ; 
And  that  every  hard  duty  will  find  us  with  strength 
To  attempt,  and  indeed  overcome  it,  at  length, 
If  we  cling  to  the  Giver  of  strength,  nor  let  go 
When  the  weakest  we  feel.     For  I'm  certain,  I  knoiu, 
That  the  weakest  may  hold  to  God's  hand  with  a  grip 
That  is  ever  unyielding,  if  only  the  lip 
Can  say,  '  Help  me,  O  Father  !  '  so  quickly  he  hears. 
And  so  soon  is  he  touched  by  our  need  and  our  tears." 


Such  a  faith  is  a  treasure  of  blessing :  it  yields 
The  sweet  waters  of  peace  in  the  barrenest  fields. 
She  will  need  all  the  help  that  it  offers  to  cope 
With  the  want  of  her  morrow  —  poor  Geraldine  Hope  ! 


GEUALDINE. 


45 


VI. 


Major  Mellen  had  business  in  Rivermet ;  leisure, 
When  business  was  done,  to,  bethink  him  of  pleasure. 
He  called  upon  Geraldine  Hope,  — 

"Just  to  show 
That  I  have  not  forgotten  that  summer,  you  know, 
"When  we  met  at  the  Hills,"  he  remarked. 

With  a  trifle 
Of  speech  she  replied,  as  if  willing  to  stifle 
His  thought  of  the  past. 

"  It  is  ages  since  then," 
He  resumed.     "  I  have  waited  for  fate  once  again 
To  be  kind,  but  in  vain  —  until  now." 

"You  believe. 
Then,  in  fate?  "  she  abruptly  inquired. 

"Yes,  I  grieve 
To  admit  that- 1  do,"  was  the  answer,  a  touch 
Of  distrust  in  his  manner  ;  "  that  is,  quite  as  much 
As  I'm  apt  to  believe  in  things  ever.     They  say 
I'm  a  heretic  born,  and  have  wandered  awnv 
From  all  faith  in  the  good  and  the  true.     It's  a  libel 
Of  course."    And  he  laughed.    "  I've  a  beautiful  Bible 
I  read  every  day  —  when  the  weather  is  fine. 


w 


46 


GERALDINE. 


(You  may  open  your  eyes  at  this  statement  of  mine 
In  mute  wonder.)     The  book  is  as  broad  as  the  sky, 
And  as  old  as  the  world.     If  a  poet,  I'd  try 
To  repeat  the  sweet  promises  in  it,  to  tell 
What  it  says  to  me  often,  so  wondrously  well 
That  I  listen  enrapt ;  but  I  haven't  the  gift 
Of  expression.     There's  Trent  "  — 

At  this  meui'.on  the  swift- 
Coursing  blood  from  her  heart,  leaping  into  her  cheek, 
Told  him  more  than  all  words  that  her  loving  might 

speak ; 
But  he  seemed  not  to  heed  the  quick  witness. 


"  Ilis  tongue 


Or  his  pen,  for  the  sweetest  of  songs  ever  sung. 

Could  find  words  in  my  Bible,  I'm  certain.     The  book 

Is  the  richest  I  know  ;  and  who  wishes  can  look 

At  it  even  as  I  do,  wMth  longing  to  learn 

All  its  lessons  and  secrets.     I  turn  and  return 

To  its  pages  each  summer  with  pleasure  intense." 


They  were  often  beset  with  perplexing  suspense 
Of  his  meaning  and  purpose,  who  listened  to  him : 
And  she  heard  him  run  on,  with  a  consciousness  dim 
That  he  might  have  a  motive  in  speaking,  not  quite 
To  be  seen  at  the  outset. 

"That  week  of  delight 
In  the  mountains,  when  fate  was  so  wiuningly  kind 
As  to  show  me  your  face,  I  was  never  less  blind 


G  ERA  L  DINE. 


47 


To  >         aauties  the  great  book  of  Nature  revealed, 

And  I  revelled  in  loveliness.     Forest  and  field 

Had  a  charm  for  me  new.     Every  mounta'n-top  shone 

With  a  marvellous  glory.     I  think,  had  I  known 

'Twas  the  very  last  week  of  my  life,  I'd  have  cared 

Not  at  all.     I  am  seldom  ecstatic  ;  I've  fared 

At  the  best  and  the  poorest  so  often,  I  hold 

By  philosophy  cool,  as  a  rule  ;  but  the  gold 

Of  that  summer  week's  gilding  is  bright  even  yet : 

I  must  live  through  a  lingering  age  to  forget 

All  the  glamour  and  glow  of  those  days  that  went  past 

Like  a  dream  of  content." 

"  Was  that  summer  the  last 
That  you  saw  of  the  Hills  ?  ' ' 

She  was  puzzled  to  tell 
What  to  think  of  his  words  and  his  manner.     So  well 
She  remembered  his  cynical  smile  and  his  sneer, 
Half -disguised,  at  all  sentiment  tender,  and  dear 
To  l!be  sensitive  heart,  she  could  hardly  accept 
What  he  uttered  as  earnest. 

"  I  could  not  have  kept 
My  first  love  for  the  Hills,  —  for  those  Hills, — had  s 

been 
There  again.     The  one  visit  was  all.     It's  a  sin 
To  defraud  any  pleasure,  of  sight  or  of  deed, 
By  repeating  it.     One  of  the  ruler  .bat  I  heed 
Is  to  go  only  once  to  a  place,  if  I  go 
For  mere  pleasure  alone  ;  and,  remembering  so 


m 

•fill 


':''i 


''■<!■ 


48 


GERALLINE. 


But  the  freshness  and  zest  of  my  pleasure  most  keen, 
There  is  nothing  to  me  that  is  common,  I  moan, 
In  the  matter  of  scenic  delight. ' ' 

' '  You  forget 
That  last  evening  we  waited  to  see  the  sun  set 
On  the  top  of  Mount  Vision,"  she  said  in  reply. 
' '  You  were  silent  a  while  ;  but  the  glow  of  the  sky 
"Was  reflected,  I  thought,  in  the  glow  of  your  face. 
You  had  seen  the  same  picture  ;  the  very  same  grace 
Of  superlative  beauty  in  color  and  tone 
Had  beguiled  you  again  and  again ' '  — 

' '  But  it  shone 
In  a  different  light ;  it  was  not  the  same  view  ; 
It  had  different  tints,  and  a  different  hue 
Over  all  from  the  sunsets  we  commonly  see. 
And,  moreover,  two  sunsets  are  never  to  me 
Just  alike.     They  are  even  diverse  as  the  features 
Of  men  in  expression.     The  creeds  of  the  preachers 
Can  vary  no  more.     But  your  lakes  and  your  hills,  * 
Your  meadows  and  mountains,  your  rivers  and  rills, 
Are  the  same  to  the  end  of  the  chapter :  they  yield 
Nothing  fresh  for  renewed  admiration  ;  revealed 
Is  the  sum  of  their  beauty  at  first  to  your  eyes  : 
They  are  changeless,  in  short.      But  the  sea  and  the 

skies,  — 
These  are  changeful   as   man,  and,  because   of  their 

change. 
As  bewitching  as  woman." 


GEBALBINE. 


49 


"  Such  talk  would  seem  strange 
From  another  than  you,  Major  Mellon,  indeed. 
I  am  puzzled  by  logic  that  lightly  can  lead 
To  conclusion  like  yours.     You  would  find  your  delight 
In  the  face  of  a  stranger ;  and  even  the  sight 
Of  a  friend  would  be  wearisome,  just  in  degree 
As  the  friend  were  familiar  to  you." 

"It  might  be 
As  you  say,"  he  responded,  "  if  'twere  not  the  fact, 
As  I've  hinted,  that  faces  do  change ;  and  an  act, 
Or  a  thought,  or  a  hope,  or  a  feeling,  may  bring 
A  new  face  in  the  old.     But  your  bird  there  may  sing 
A  new  song,  thougli  he  change  not  a  feather ;  and  thus 
May  our  friend,  though  he  change  not  the  smile   he 

gives  us, 
Be  as  changeful  in  words  as  the  sky  is  in  looks, 
Have  as  varying  moods  as  the  sea,  or  the  books 
Of  the  poets." 

*'  Perhaps  "  (and  she  paused,  as  if  shrinking 
From  saying  too  much)  —  "it  may  be  we  are  thinking 
Diversely.     I  never  am  positive  whether 
Your  words  and  your  thoughts  run  exactly  together. 
You  like  to  combat  and  discuss,  and  draw  out 
The  beliefs  and  the  fancies  of  others.     I  doubt 
If  you  fully  accept  all  you  freely  imply. 
Now,  to  me  every  mountain  takes  glow  from  the  sky 
That  it  kisses,  or  sombreness  wears  like  a  frown 
When  the  mists  and  the  shadows  fall  heavily  down ; 


60 


GERALBINE. 


Every  meadow  lights  up  by  the  sun,  as  a  face 
Might  be  glorified,  seen  in  some  radiant  place  ; 
Every  lake  but  reflects  what  the  sky  above  shows,  — 
Either  sunlight  or  shadow  ;  it  sparkles  and  glows, 
Or  is  angry  from  touch  of  the  winds,  or  is  still 
As  the  spring  that  begets  yonder  musical  rill 
In  its  home  in  the  wild.     I  see  changes  in  all 
That  are  beautiful.     None  of  these  ever  can  pall 
On  my  vision." 

He  often  had  seen  her  as  now, 
With  the  pink  of  her  cheek  and  the  white  of  her  brow 
Yet  the  stronger  in  contrast,  from  feeling  that  urged 
The  quick  blood  through  her  veins  till  it  rippled  and 

surged 
In  her  face.     He  had  often  beguiled  her  to  think 
In  expression  as  earnest,  that  thus  he  might  drink 
Of  her  glowing  delight  in  the  lovely  and  true  : 
'Twas  a  pleasure  surprising,  peculiar,  and  new, 
Thus  to  put  her  in  eager  defence  of  her  thought, 
Till  lier  beauty,  with  something  mysterious  fraught, 
Had  a  charm  that  was  rare.     He  had  wearied  of  much 
That  men  fancy  is  pleasant ;  but  here  was  a  touch 
Of  delight  that  he  could  not  explain.     He  could  smile 
At  the  commoner  pleasures  with  which  men  beguile 
The  dull  days.     But  some  influence  hidden,  unguessed. 
Was  upon  him,  and  gave  to  each  moment  a  zest 
That  was  fresh  and  unfailing,  as,  scanning  her  face. 
He  could  study  her  feeling  and  thought,  and  could  trace 


GERALDINE. 


51 


Every  turn  of  her  fancy,  each  questioning  doubt. 
He  had  keen  intuition,  and  saw  much  without 
Any  effort  at  seeing  ;  was  quick  to  divine 
Every  meaning  that  hirked  in  a  glance  or  a  sign ; 
And  made  use  of  his  sceptical  questions  and  sneers 
To  uncover  the  souls  of  his  friends. 

' '  It  appears 
To  me  certain  you*ve  read  in  my  Bible,"  he  said, 
With  a  laugh  not  too  mocking,  "  although  you  have  read 
With  a  thought  of  your  own  running  on  with  the  theme 
Of  the  text.      You  can  linger  and  listen  and  dream 
In  the  woods  and  the  fields  like  a  poet,  —  or,  yes, 
Like  a  man  of  the  world  who  forever  finds  less 
In  the  world  to  his  fancy,  except  it  be  far 
From  the  din  —  and  the  dinners.     You  certainly  are 
Of  the  order  of  poets  yourself  to  behold 
Such  a  glow  of  tlie  new  in  a  shade  of  the  old. 
You  should  marry  a  poet.  Miss  Hope,  who  could  see 
With  such  eyes  as  your  own  —  if  there  happen  to  be 
Any  man  of  so  wealthy  endowment." 

She  blushed 
At  the  words  and  the  look,  and  unconsciously  crushed 
A  wild  rose  she  had  held  in  her  hand.     Had  he  heard 
What  one  poet  was  to  her  ? 

' '  It  never  occurred 
To  me,  major,"  she  said,  "  that  the  ultimate  mission 
A  poet  may  know  is  to  bring  the  fruition 
Of  life  to  one  woman  be  honors  with  marriage. 


62 


GEBALDINE. 


I  may  not  be  right,  —  and  I  would  not  disparage 
The  poets,  I'm  certain,  — but  poets,  as  poets, 
Belong,  I  believe,  to  all  women.     I  know  it's 
A  fact  that  they  marry  ;  but  isn't  it  fact 
That  they  wed  not  as  poets  ?  that  women  attract 
Not  the  poet,  but  only  a  man  among  men?  " 

He  was  puzzled,  in  turn,  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
Comprehending  that  she  was  but  parrying,  laughed, 
And  let  fly,  as  he  fancivid,  a  Parthian  shaft. 


"  No,  they  don^t  wed  as  poets  :  connubial  ties 
Would  be  idle  to  bind  all  the  passion  that  lies 
In  the  heart  of  a  poet.     The  man  may  be  bound  ; 
But  the  poet  is  free,  and  wherever  is  found 
Any  blossoming  sweet  he  may  gather  it  in. 
They  are  lucky  —  these  poets  :  they've  only  to  win 
As  the  men,  like  us  all,  and  have  freedom  accorded 
To  woo  and  to  win,  then,  as  poets,  rewarded 
By  beauty  and  love  in  most  bountiful  measure. 
A  poet,  it  seems,  has  an  infinite  leisure 
For  love,  and  capacity  equal.     There's  Trent, 
Whom  I've  named  :  the  good  fellow  was  meant 
For  a  knight  in  heroic  and  chivalrous  times 
Quite  as  much  as  a  minstrel  to  maunder  his  rhymes. 
He's  the  soul  of  a  poet,  as  all  will  confess 
Who  have  heard  him  and  read  him  ;  likewise  (and  not 
less) 


GEBALBINE. 


58 


Is  the  liberal  heart  of  the  poet  his  own. 

We  were  intimate  friends  years  ago  ;  but  I've  known 

Very  little  aljout  him  since  then,  till  of  late. 

As  a  boy  in  his  teens,  he'd  a  singular  fate 

For  sporadic  affection  :  before  he  was  twenty 

He'd  loves  half  a  dozen  ;  it's  probable  plenty 

Have  gladdened  him  since.     It  was  thought  he  would 

wed 
A  young  lady  in  Somers  ;  and  I  have  heard  said 
He  would  marry  some  one  in  this  town. ' ' 

"Did  you  hear 
"Who  the  young  lady  was?  "  she  inquired  with  a  queer 
Little  tremor  of  voice. 

"  Now  I  really  forgot 
To  inquire,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  the  fact  matters' not. 
He's  a  passion  much  later  than  that,  I  am  sure, 
And  it  mn"  prove  more  difficult  even  to  cure. 
I  have  known  more  than  one  to  meet  Isabel  Lee 
To  his  lasting  regret.     She's  a  marvel  to  me 
(And  a  c6usin,  which  means  that  I  know  her  quite  well) 
For  her  mastery  over  the  men.     I  could  tell, 
When  I  introduced  Trent,  what  would  follow.     She 

knew 
How  to  rouse  his  whole  interest  in  her.     She  drew 
Him  again  and  again,  and  will  draw  him,  despite 
Any  previous  fancy,  until  her  delight 
In  his  presence  and  passion  is  over.     The  hurt 
Will  not  kill  him." 


64 


GERALDINE. 


"This  woman  is,  then,  but  —  a  —  flirt,** 
She  remarked,  hesitating,  to  cover  the  pause 
When  he  stopped. 

"  I  may  say  she  has  given  some  cause 
To  be  called  so,"  he  answered,  a  cynical  ring 
In  his  voice  ;  "  but  she  may  not  intend  any  thing 
That  is  certain  to  breed  very  positive  harm. 
She  believes  in  the  right  of  each  woman  to  charm 
As  she  can.     She  regards  it  the  duty  of  each 
To  do  discipline-work  on  all  hoarts  within  reach. 
She's  a  woman  of  women,  in  short,  with  a  will 
To  be  wooed  for  the  wooing,  not  won ;  to  instil 
As  much  love  as  she  may  in  the  hearts  of  mankind, 
Which  is  quite  evangelical  truly.     We  find 
That  the  preachers  preach  love,  of  a  sort ;  and  the  best 
Should  be  fruiting  itself  in  humanity's  breast. 
If  occasion  there  be  for  the  poorest." 

He  talked 
In  a  tone  that  was  usual  with  him,  and  mocked 
All  the  meaning  his  cynical  words  might  have  held ; 
And  she  listened  with  curious  feelings,  compelled 
To  seem  anxious  as  only  a  woman  who  heard 
Such  allusion  to  one  of  her  sex  as  but  stirred 
Her  own  pity  indignant.     Her  face  was  aflame, 
And  she  dared  not  to  venture  on  speaking  his  name 
Who  was  more  to  her  even  than  life. 

"It's  a  shame,** 
She  made  answer,  "  for  women  to  be  as  you  say. 


GEBALDINE. 


55 


And  you  libel  us  all  when  you  speak  in  that  way, 
As  if  women  were  all  mere  coquettes.     There  are  more 
Who  give  love  than  are  loved  ;  and,  if  all  men  but  bore 
The  respect  that  they  ought  for  all  women,  the  sex 
Would  be  nobler  and  better.     You  talk  but  to  vex 
Me  to  earnest  defence  of  my  kind :  you  don't  mean 
What  you  utter. ' ' 

He  smiled,  the  same  smile  she  had  seen 
On  his  face  in  the  past,  —  half  a  sneer,  half  assent 
To  a  fact  he  would  gladly  refute. 

"I'm  content 
Not  to  argue  the  question,"  he  answered,  "  with  one 
Who  might  point  to  herself,  ere  we  well  had  begun. 
As  a  proof  for  all  women.     I  gladly  cry  quits 
At  the  outset.     I  never  could  measure  my  wits 
With  a  woman's  in  argument.     Even  to  try. 
In  this  instance,  would  lose  me  my  train  :  so  good-by.'* 
And  he  rose,  and  extended  his  hand. 

"Must  you  go?" 
She  replied  ;  not  too  eager,  he  fancied.     "  I  know 
The- young  woman  —  you  heard  about  —  here,  whom 

your  friend 
Was  to  marry,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "  and  will  lend 
Her  my  ears  for  the  news  you  have  brought,  should  it 

seem 
To  be  worth  any  while."  " 

And  like  one  in  a  dream 
She  went  up  to  her  room,  and  sat  down  with  her  grief 


56 


GEBALBINE. 


Over-brooding  and  weighing  upon  her.     Belief 

In  the  story  to  which  she  had  listened  was  first 

A  necessity.     All  it  implied,  and  the  worst, 

She  accepted,  and  tortured  herself  into  pain 

Of  the  keenest.     When  day  came  again,  she  had  lain 

On  a  bed  of  unrest  a  long  night  through  ;  her  throbbing 

Heart  weary  and  tempted,  and  sore  with  its  sobbing ; 

For  the  woman  within  her  was  quick  to  take  up 

Any  bitterness  offered,  and  drink  till  the  cup 

Had  been  drained  to  its  dregs. 

Then  some  gladness  shone  in  : 
She  was  wicked  to  yield  to  her  doubt ;  it  was  sin 
Thus  to  sorrow  and  grieve  ;  if  some  love  she  had  lost. 
There  was  God,  —  he  would  profit  her,  even  at  cost 
That  was  dear.     So  she  reasoned  at  length ;  and  she 

prayed 
With  a  tender  upgiving  that  must  have  delayed 
More  than  one  of  God's  angels  to  listen  and  hear. 
And  at  last,  through  the  clouds,  came  a  radiance  clear, 
Till  she  saw  mid  her  tears  the  glad  rainbow  of  trust. 


When  believing  came  back,  —  as   to  some  hearts  it 

must, 
Though  it  leave  for  a  little,  —  she  felt  she  had  done 
A  great  wrong  to  her  love  and  to  God ;  and,  as  one 
Who  has  grievously  sinned,  she  repented  in  tears 
Of  her  sin,  till  they  blinded  her  doubts  and  her  fears, 
And  made  way  for  the  sunshine  that  came. 


GEBALDIJSTE. 


57 


And  how  sweet 
Is  the  sunlight  that  falls  on  our  wandering  feet, 
When  the  morning  dawns  clear  after  night  of  distress, 
And  we  look  on  a  land  that  our  hope  may  possess 
By  and  by !     Blessed  morrow  to  gladden  us  all. 
If  to-day  not  a  shadow  of  sunset  could  fall  1 


v\ 


58 


GEBALDINE. 


VII. 


When  Geraldine  Hope  met  her  lover  again, 

She  was  tenderer  even  than  common.     To  men 

Of  his  mould  it  is  easy  for  women  to  yield 

Their  caresses  and  trust.     She  had  always  revealed 

Her  whole  soul  to  him  freely  ;  and  now  she  expressed 

With  sweet  emphasis,  sweeter  than  any  possessed 

In  articulate  language  of  love,  how  she  rested 

Herself  in  his  heart.     It  was  not  that  she  tested 

His  love  and  his  faith :  she  was  certain  of  these  ; 

She  had  walked  from  her  wilderness  dark  on  her  knees. 

It  was  not  that  she  thought  to  make  certain  her  strength 

Over  him,  as  of  old  ;  it  might  happen  at  length 

That  she  seem  to  him  weaker  than  late  she  had  been 

In  the  sight  of  herself.     It  was  not  that  she  win 

A  new  fervor  of  love.     It  was  simply  that  he 

Had  been  wronged  in  her  thought  and  belief  ;  and  so  she 

Made  amends  as  she  could. 

There  are  wives  ,who  have  doubted 
The  faith  of  their  husbands  for  less,  and  have  shouted 
Their  doubts  to  the  world,  as  if  virtue  must  claim 
Its  reward  on  the  house-tops,  or  ally  with  shame ; 
But  this  woman,  as  wedded  by  love,  in  the  eyes 


GERA  LDINE. 


59 


Of  the  angels,  she  knew,  as  her  sister  that  sighs 
Over  vows,  and  a  bridal  ring  empty  of  bliss, 
Could  seal  close  into  silence  her  pain  with  a  kiss, 
And  remember  it  only  to  smile  at.     She  would  not 
So  much  as  make  question  to  him  ;  and  she  could  not 
Again  feel  a  question  concerning  his  love. 
She  was  trustingly  sure.     And  henceforth,  far  above 
Every  statement  of  cynical  doubt,  she  would  bear 
Her  belief  in  his  honor  and  truth.     He  should  share 
The  full  trust  that  she  gave  to  her  God. 

You  may  know 
How  she  loved,  to  stand  fast  and  unfaltering  so  ; 
You  may  guess  what  her  love  must  have  meant  to  her  life, 
When  she  fought  out  alone  such  a  wearying  strife 
With  distrust,  and  then  put  it  all  back  in  the  past. 
That  no  shadow  of  conscious  unfaith  might  be  cast 
On  their  future. 

Had  Percival  Trent  at  this  time 
Felt  a  doubt  of  his  love  in  return,  some  sublime 
And  unselfish  intent  must  have  moved  him  to  hold 
It  in  check.     He  was  tenderer,  too,  than  of  old. 
He  looked  down  in  her  eyes  with  his  own  brimming  over 
With  truth,  and  was  glad. 

"I've  so  long  been  a  rover," 
He  said  to  her  soon,  "  that  I  hunger  for  home 
Of  my  own.     Only  vagabonds  always  can  roam 
Up  and  down,  as  a  decade  or  more  I  have  done, 
Without  wearying  of  it.     There's  much  to  be  won 


60 


GEBALDINE. 


In  the  broad  world  of  being  I've  studied  so  long ; 
But  I'd  rather  be  singing  some  ingleside  song 
For  your  heart  to  be  happy  in  hearing  alone, 
Than  to  win  all  the  praises  of  men  I  have  known. 
I've  another  long  season  of  labor  ahead, 
That  will  amply  provide  me  with  means  to  buy  bread 
For  us  both  afterward.     You'll  be  ready  to  sit 
And  preside  for  us  two  at  the  breaking  of  it?  " 
She  could  be  very  merry  indeed,  if  she  chose, 
And  the  spirit  was  on  her  just  now. 

"  I  suppose 
We  may  have  something  more,"  she  remarked  with  a 

laugh, 
*'Than  you've  mentioned?   Forme,  I  must  say,  even 

half 
Of  a  loaf  would  not  answer.     A  little  of  meat 
And  potatoes  might  make  our  provision  complete.' 


»> 


*'  It  is  meet  we  shall  be  at  our  own  little  board 
By  and  by,"  he  rejoined,  "  when  my  slow-growing  hoard 
Is  increased  to  the  proper  proportions.     We'll  live 
On  the  peaches  and  cream  of  existence,  and  give 
Of  the  commoner  good  to  who  wants  it." 

She  smiled 
At  his  liberal  purpose.     She  seemed  like  a  child 
In  her  simple  acceptance  of  pleasures  to  be, 
And  she  listened  with  joy  that  was  winsome  to  see 
As  he  glowingly  pictured  the  happy  content 
Of  some  morrow  to  come. 


GERALDINE. 


61 


Surely  Percival  Trent 
Was  a  fortunate  man.     With  his  mood  at  its  best, 
He  was  glad  as  are  they  in  the  Valley  of  Rest 
Who  have  never  a  sorrow,  and  never  are  sad ; 
He  could  stand  on  the  Mountains  of  Beulah,  as  glad 
As  if  never  he  groped  in  the  shadows  below, 
And  the  glories  of  being  as  truly  could  know 
On  their  heights  as  if  down  in  the  depth  there  were  none 
Of  its  midnight  and  gloom  when  the  gladness  was  done. 
Yes,  a  fortunate  man,  but  more  fortunate  here. 
On  this  day  of  delight,  than  in  many  a  year, 
If  forever,  he  might  be  again  ;  for  he  stood 
On  the  edge  of  his  Edom,  unknowing.     The  good 
Of  the  Uplands  of  Promise  could  only  be  gained 
By  a  wilderness  way  that  was  rugged,  and  stained 
With  the  blood  of  its  wandering,  wearying  souls. 
He  must  go  as  they  journey  who  seek  for  the  goals 
That  are  hardest  to  gain,  with  no  kindness  or  care 
For  himself,  only  patient,  and  willing  to  bear 
All  the  pain  of  the  days,  all  their  famishing  heat. 
May  God  help  him,  if  ever  the  manna  sent  sweet 
From  the  generous  heaven  should  fail  in  his  need ! 
God  help  all  who  are  seeking  their  Canaan,  and  lead 
As  he  can,  with  his  merciful  hand  of  release, 
By  and  by,  to  its  infinite  plenty  and  peace  ! 


When  they  parted  at  last,  Geraldine  and  her  lover. 
The  angels  of  hope  seemed  to  heed  them,  and  hover 


62 


GERALD  IN E. 


About  them  with  whispers  of  cheer.     It  was  June  ; 
And  the  air,  with  its  murmurous  music  in  tune 
"With  their  sentiments  tender,  was  sweet  as  a  breeze 
From  some  island  of  bloom,  blowing  over  the  seas 
To  a  mariner  homesick  for  land.     'Twas  a  time 
To  be  wed,  and  not  parted.     The  year  in  its  prime 
Was  a  redolent  glory  ;  the  thrill  of  its  bliss 
Added  ecstasy  rare  to  the  thrill  of  theh'  kiss 
As  he  said  his  farewell. 

There  are  days  that  are  kind 
As  a  mother  to  men,  showing  pathways  that  wind 
Out  and  in,  like  a  dream,  by  some  stream  of  delight ; 
Never  hinting  of  aught  that  they  hold  to  affright ; 
Only  luring  us  on,  since  the  way  must  be  trod, 
Over  meadows  of  green  with  their  velvety  sod. 
To  the  steeps,  that  are  harder  to  climb,  far  before. 
There  are  nights  so  enchanting,  they  seem  to  restore 
The  original  beauty  of  Eden  ;  so  tender. 
They  woo  every  soul  to  a  willing  surrender 
Of  feverish  longing  ;  so  holy,  withal. 
That  a  broad  benediction  seems  sweetly  to  fall 
On  the  world. 

And  these  followed  with  magical  sheen, 
The  rare  sunsets  aflame  the  rich  mornings  between, 
Giving  Fercival  Trent  a  new  relish  for  life, 
A  new  spirit  and  grace  for  the  struggle  and  strife 
Of  the  years.    For  he  went  for  his  summer's  brief  rest 
Down  a  river  of  beauty  to  Isles  of  the  Blest. 


GEBALBINE. 


63 


VIII. 


Fair  St.  Lawrence  !     What  poet  has  sung  of  its  grace 
As  it  sleeps  in  the  sun,  witii  its  smile-dimpled  face 
Beaming  up  to  the  sky  that  it  mirrors  ?     What  brush 
lias  e'er  pictured  the  charm  of  the  marvellous  hush 
Of  its  silence,  or  caught  the  warm  glow  of  its  tints 
As  the  afternoon  wanes,  and  the  eveii-star  glints 
In  its  beautiful  depths  ?  and  what  pen  shall  betray 
The  sweet  secrets  that  hide  from  man's  vision  away 
In  its  solitudes  wild?     'Tis  the  rivcl'  of  dreams. 
You   may  float   in  your  boat  on   the   bloom-bordered 

streams. 
Where  its  islands  like  emeralds  matchless  are  set, 
And  forget  that  you  live,  and  as  quickly  forget 
That  they  die  in  that  world  you  have  left ;  for  the 

calm 
Of  content  is  within  you,  the  blessing  of  balm 
Is  upon  you  forever.     Mortality  sleeps 
While  you  dream,  an  immort*^! ;  some  mistiness  creeps 
Like  a  veil  of  forgetfulness  over  your  past. 
And  it  is  not.     Your  day  is  eternal,  to  last 
Without  darkness,  or  change,  or  the  shadow  of  dread. 
Blessed  isles  where  to-day  and  to-morrow  are  wed 


64 


GEBALDINE. 


In  such  fuluess  of  bliss  !     Blessed  river  t^^at  smiles 
lu  such  beauty  and  peace  by  the  beautiful  isles  I 


lie  had  dreamed  for  a  week  at  the  IslaDds.  content 
"Without  company,  glad  of  each  lonely  day  spent, 
And  shunning  the  groups  that  each  evening  convened 
At  the  house  where  he  stopped.     But  one  night,  as  he 

leaned 
Looking  out  of  his  window,  some  fair  sailors  singing 
Far  over  the  water,  their  sweet  echoes  ringing 
But  faintly  across  the  dim  distance,  he  heard 
A  clear  voice  in  the  portico  under,  that  stirred 
Him  to  interest  sudden  and  strong.     Could  it  be 
That  he  listened  aright  ?    He  would  walk  down  and  see. 
There  was  only  one  woman  who  had  such  a  tone, 
Among  all  the  women  he  ever  had  known  ; 
Such  a  mellow  out-gushing  of  melody  clear 
As  made  music  of  commonplace  speech  to  the  ear. 
When  he  passed  to  the  portico  broad,  there  was  none 
To  be  seen  whom  he  knew  ;  for  the  band  had  begun 
Its  accustomed  performance  within  the  great  room 
Where  the  gay  ones  had  gathered :  outside  was  the  gloom 
Of  an  evening  whose  moon  was  unrisen.     The  shout 
Of  some  fishermen  smote  the  soft  air,  and  died  out 
Into  silence.     The  song  from  the  opposite  shore 
Had  been  sung  to  the  end.     The  soft  dip  of  an  oar 
In  the  water  so  still  was  the  sum  of  all  sound 
From  without.     Disappointed,  he  went  the  whole  round 


GEliALDlNE. 


G5 


Of  the  ample  verandas,  expectant,  but  met 

No  reward  for  bis  searching,  and  turned  with  regret 

To  the  pbice  where  the  dancers  were  waiting. 

A  bright 
Scene  it  was  that  he  saw,  —  the  large  room  all  alight, 
Happy  groups  here  and  tlier(>  gayly  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing, 
Here  and  there  a  coquette  her  blind  followers  chaffing, 
Some  silent  ones  simply  observing  or  dreaming, 
The  glitter  of  fashion  and  radiance  gleaming 
Throughout.     It  was  strange  he  had  willingly  staid 
From  such  music  and  glow  as   here  met  him.     lie 

made 
His  way  quietly  into  the  room,  and  sat  down 
To  look  over  the  faces,  —  some  sun-burned  and  brown 
From  the  water  and  wind,  and  a  few  that  were  tinted 
With  color  so  vivid  and  strong,  that  they  hinted 
Of  rouge.    There  were  none  he  had  seen,  save  at  table  ; 
And  out  of  the  tumult,  the  blare,  and  the  babel 
The  band  and  the  people  were  making,  he  caught 
Not  the  one  single  tone  that  his  listening  ear  sought : 
Yet  he  waited,  and  listened,  and  almost  forgot 
What  he  came  for,  and  missed.     'Twas  his  fortunate  lot 
To  like  music  so  well,  that  it  counted  for  much 
That  he  wanted  ;  at  times  making  up,  with  its  touch 
As  of  magic,  the  lack  and  the  need. 

By  and  by. 
When  the  dancers  were  weary  and  still,  with  a  sigh 


>y 


ee 


GEBALDINE. 


He  went  out,  and  strolled  down  to  the  wharf,  where  the 

boats 
Lay  awaiting  the  morrow.     Some  late  singer's  notes 
Came  across  to  him  there  from  the  sliadows  beyond 
The  broad  channel,  and  wooc      ..iii  to  ckeams  that  were 

fond. 
But  just  over  the  tree-tops  the  meek  moon  was  hung, 
its  soft  lustre  illuming  the  stream  ;  and  he  swung 
A  light  skiff  from  its  pla:;e,  and  laid  grip  on  the  oars. 
He  could  handle  them  well.     In  a  moment  the  shores 
Faded  out  into  dimness  ;  the  mammoth  hotel 
Was  a  glittering  spot  in  the  night ;  and  he  fell 
Into  musing  profound. 

From  his  boat  far  away 
To  the  slow-sailing  moon,  on  the  waters  there  lay 
A  broad  pathway  of  gold,  for  his  fancy  to  take. 
And  go  up  to  the  region  of  dawn,  and  there  make 
A  new  morning  ideal.     The  wash  of  the  waves 
On  the  boatsides  was  like  the  low- murmuring  staves 
Of  a  Mendelssohn's  Song  without  Words,  and  inclined 
Him  to  utter  forgctfulness.     Patient,  and  blind 
To  the  sins  of  the  world,  the  pale  stars  shone  above  him  ; 
The  balmy  night-breezes  seemed  shyly  to  love  him, 
And  kiss  him  with  clinging,  affectionate  grace  ; 
And  unmindful  of  time,  and  unheeding  of  space, 
He  was  borne  down  the  current.    Some  strains  of  a  song 
Floated  over  him,  echoing  faintly  along 
On  the  silence  ;  but  heard  (if  at  all  they  were  heard) , 


GERALBINE. 


67 


As  you  hear  the  loud  carolling  call  of  your  bird, 
Without  heeding.     His  soul  had  companionless  gone 
To  the  realm  of  the  silent,  the  land  of  the  dawn. 

So  he  mused  and  he  dreamed  ;  but  a-sudden  his  dreams 
"Were  all  shattered  and  sunk  by  the  shivering  screams 
Of  a  little  steam-yacht  that  was  running  him  down 
In  the  stillness  and  dark. 

"  He  will  certainly  drown  !  " 
Said  a  voice  in  affright,  as  the  vessel's  light  bow, 
Deftly  cutting  the  deep,  slid  along  on  the  prow 
Of  his  boat,  and  upset  it.     Dismay  seized  on  all 
In  the  yacht,  and  a  common  and  terrified  call 
"Woke  the  echoes  around. 

"  Ship  ahoy  !  "  said  the  man 
From  his  bath  in  the  night.  "  Lend  a  Hue,  if  you  can, 
And  I'll  right  up  my  boat,  and  make  fast  for  a  tow."  . 

As  he  swam  to  his  craft  that  had  floated  below, 
He  recalled  the  one  voice  that  had  spoken  at  first. 
And  was  certain  a  friend  must  be  near.     At  the  worst, 
lie  could  count  on  a  cold  for  his  droll  escapade  : 
There  was  nothing  of  danger. 

The  yachtsmen  obeyed 
His  request,  flung  a  line,  and  bore  round  to  him  quick. 


\ 


"  Come  on  board  !  "  said  che  captain.     "  A  very  poor 
trick  • 


68 


GERALDINE. 


/ 


We  have  played  you,  whoever  you  are.    Can't  be  mended 

As  /see,  however  :    so  don't  be  offended, 

But  give  us  your  hand."    And  he  lifted  him  up 

To  the  rail  all  a-dripping.     "  A  good  brimming  cup 

Of  my  brandy  will  keep  you  from  taking  a  chill. 

Let  me  bring  you  a  drink." 

"  No,  I  thank  you  :  I  will, 
If  an  overcoat  be  at  command,  accept  that ; 
And,  if  some  one  had  only  the  twin  of  my  hat 
That  I  left  in  the  water,  I  think  I  might  wear  it." 

*'  It  hadn't  a  brick  in  to  sink  it,  I'll  swear  it !  " 
Said  one  of  those  nearest,  outreaching  his  hand. 


*'  Is  it  you^  Major  Mellen?    I  quite  understand 
My  disaster  at  once.     Melancholy  the  place 
And  occurrence,  indeed." 

' '  But  you  put  a  good  face 
On  it,  all  must  admit,  Mr.  Trent,"  said  the  voice 
He  had  heard.     "  We  must  all  of  us  keenly  rejoice 
That  it  ends  no  more  sadly. ' ' 

"And2/ow,  Mrs.  Lee? 
To  bring  up  in  such  circle,  I'd  e'en  go  to  sea, 
As  the  Wise  Men  set  sail,  in  a  bowl."     And  he  took 
The  white  hand  that  she  offered  him  warmly.    It  shook 
With  the  faintest  of  tremors. 

' '  Pray  pardon  me,  each. 
For  the  fright  I  have  paused  you.     I  might  make  a 
speech 


GEBALBINE. 


m 


To  the  party,  without  the  least  possible  fear 
Of  (for  once)  being  dry." 

"  Then  pray  make  it  right  here 
And  just  now,"  said  the  major.    "Don't  let  it  go  past.] 
Such  a  chance  should  be  met,  for  it  may  be  the  last. 
I  present  to  you,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  one 
Who  appears  on  the  scene  like  a  genuine  son 
Of  the  sea,  Mr.  Percival  Trent.     You  have  read 
Him  in  prose  and  in  verse.     It  has  often  been  said 
That  his  measures  are  liquid,  the  reason  is  plain : 
He  inclines  to  the  liquid  himself." 

So  the  vein 
Of  good  humor  was  worked  till  they  landed,  and  said 
Then-  good-nights,  and  betook  them  to  silence  and  bed. 


70 


GEBALDINE, 


IX. 

It  was  late  the  next  morning  when  Percival  Trent 
Took  his  breakfast.     At  table  a  message  was  sent 
To  him,  asking  that  he  would  make  one  of  a  number 
To  seek  the  Canadian  channel.     Sweet  slumber 
Had  rendered  but  idle  all  fears  of  his  friends 
With  regard  to  his  health,  as  with  humor  that  lends 
A  rare  aid  ro  digestion,  he  sauntered  below 
To  the  landing.     The  party  was  ready  to  go,  — 
A  gay  group  whom  he  hardly  had  noted  last  night, 
And  for  whom  he  cared  little  to-day.     But  the  sight 
Of  his  friend  Mrs.  Lee  gave  him  pleasure  afresh. 


"Is  it,  then,  really  you  whom  I  see  in  the  flesh,'* 
She  inquired  with  a  smile,  "  and  not  simply  your  spirit, 
That  startled  us  there  from  the  river?  " 

"I  fear  it 
Was  I  in  the  flesh  who  so  fi-iglvtened  you  all. 
As  this  certainly  is  ;  though  I .  icm  to  recall 
As  a  very  vague  dream  my  unpleasant  relapse 
Of  last  evening.     I've  met  with  more  wretched  mis- 
haps. 
But  not  often.     The  fault  was  my  own,  and  the  scare 


GERALBINE. 


71 


You  all  kindly  took  part  iu.     I'll  use  better  care 
The  uext  time  I  go  dreiiming  uloue,  ]Mr.s.  Lee." 

' '  But  pray  tell,  Mr.  Trent,  bow  you  happened  to  be 
Solitary  and  far,  as  you  were,  and  so  late. 
I  have  never  supposed  you  a  tempter  of  fate 
In  such  manner  unsocial. ' ' 

"I'm  here  quite  alone,'* 
He  made  answer.     "  No  soul  whom  I  ever  have  known 
Have  I  seen  for  a  week,  till  last  nigiit  I  met  you 
And  the  major.     I  like  to  be  captain  and  crew 
Now  and  then,  and  go  drifting  wherever  the  stream 
May  incline  me.     The  moonlight  invites  me  to  dream, 
And  a  dreamer  is  ever  unsocial.     But  pray. 
Are  you  here  for  the  season,  or  only  a  day?  " 


"  For  a  month,  M"   Trent ;  and  I  hope  you  will  stay 
While  we  tarry.     My  friends  would  not  talvc  a  denial, 
And  brought  me  along  nolens  volens.     My  vial 
Of  wrath  at  their  folly  is  empt}''  at  last ; 
For  I  think  I  could  bear  it  a  while  to  be  cast 
On  a  desert  indeed,  with  both  you  and  the  major 
To  cheer  me." 

"  You're  talking  of  me,  I  will  wager. 
In  ways  that  you  should  not,"  that  gentleman  said. 
Coming  up.     "  But  no  matter,  I've  been  for  the  bread 
And  the  butter,  and  pickles,  and  now  we  are  going 
Aboard." 


72 


GERALBINE. 


The  small  steamer  her  whistle  was  blowing 
In  little  shrill  screams  that  suggested  his  waking 
From  reverie  deep  the  night  previous.     Taking 
Their  way  to  the  yacht,  they  were  off  very  soon 
For  a  morning's  delight,  and  a  long  afternoon 
Mid  the  islands  that  skirt  the  Canadian  shore. 
It  was  one  of  those  days  to  stand  out  evermore 
In  your  memory,  after  you  live  them,  divine 
From  the  Maker's   own  hand,  with  a  shimmer  and 

shine. 
And  a  marvellous  glow  that  are  rare  as  the  mornings 
Of  Gud.     And  all  Nature  had  donned  the  adornings 
Of  beauty,  and  wore  them  with  grace  like  a  queen. 
Every  islet  seemed  glad  in  its  garments  of  green  ; 
And  the  far-away  hills  of  the  mainland  were  beaming 
With  brightness  against  the  blue  sky. 

Slowly  steaming 
Adown  the  wide  channel  for  two  or  three  miles, 
They  then  rounded  their  course  for  the  Lake  of  the 

Isles. 
How  it  sleeps,  with  the  islands  embracing  it  round, 
In  its  beautiful,  silvery  silence  profound  ! 
The  sweet  charm  of  content  is  upon  it,  unbroken 
By  sound  of  unrest,  or  the  presence  or  token 
Of  man.     There  is  nothing  to  trouble  the  dreams 
That  are  born  of  its  beauty,  save  haply  the  screams 
Of  some  hawk  as  he  greedily  chases  his  prey, 
Or  the  plash  of  a  fish  in  the  water. 


GEBALDINE. 


73 


*'  Some  clay 
I  would  die  in  a  beautiful  silence  like  this, 
And  go  out  of  the  world  with  the  world's  tender  kias 
Sweet  upon  me,"  said  Trent,  in  a  low  underbreath, 
To  the  friend  at  his  side. 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  death 
In  the  midst  of  such  beauty  and  peace,"  she  replied. 
"  I  would  live  on  forever  within  it !  " 

She  sighed ; 
But  her  face  wore  a  smile  as  she  spoke. 

"I'm  a  heathen 
You'll  think,  Mr.  Trent ;  but  no  fancy  to  me  than 
The  fancy  of  death  is  more  dreadful.     I  can't 
Overcome  it.     It's  foolish,  I'm  ready  to  grant ; 
But  I   shrink  from  all  thought  of   just  dying  —  just 

giving 
Up  breath,  and  so  —  stopping  forever.     My  living 
Don't  count  for  so  much,  I  admit,  as  it  might, 
¥ov  myself  and  my  friends  ;  and  I  value  it  light 
As  you  possibly  could  do.     It  isn't  that  I 
Am  so  anxious  to  live  ;  but  I  don't  want  —  to  die.'* 


They  were  sitting,  it  chanced,  just  a  trifle  apart, 
And  unheard  by  the  rest. 

"  It  is  not  in  the  art 
Of  the  preacher  to  make  such  a  commonplace  thing 
Of  this  dying  as  some  would  fain  make  it.     The  sting 
Of  mortality  is  and  must  be  that  it  perishes. 


74 


GERALDINE. 


frothing  can  lust  that  the  heart  foudly  cherishes 
Here  "  —  and  he  paused. 

"Yes,  of  course.     And  I  know 
That  this  body  of  mine,  and  this  being,  must  go 
Very  soon  the  one  way  of  all  flesh  ;  yet  the  thought 
Is  a  horror  to  me  —  that  our  bodies  are  brought 
Into  life  for  a  little,  to  trouble  and  care  for, 
To  keep,  and  at  times,  perchance,  put  up  a  praj^or  for ; 
And  loving  them  much,  it  may  be,  from  such  caring. 
We  then  must  accept  for  them  only  the  faring 
Of  death  and  the  grave.     We  were  made,  I  believe, 
For  a  destiny  better." 

"  Some  error  of  Eve 
Played  the  mischief  with  destiny,  I  have  been  told, 
If  to  answer  your  comment  I  may  be  so  bold," 
Said  the  major,  approaching,  who  heard  the  last  sentence. 
"  The  whim  of  a  woman,  the  lasting  repentance 
Of  man,  — that's  the  way  it  has  been  ever  since. 
While  the  whims  amuse  you,  they  may  cause  us  to  wince 
Pretty  often.     I'm  '  posted,'  — I  carry  the  scars." 
And  he  laughed  as  he  spoke. 

' '  But  not  one  of  them  mars 
Your  abounding  conceit,  Major  Mellen.     Your  pride 
In  subduing  the  feminine  heart  will  abide 
Any  stabs  you  arc  likely  to  feel." 

' '  Such  sarcasm 
Demands  from  somebody  a  fit  cataplasm. 
I  go,  Mrs.  Lee,  to  receive  it." 


GEBALBINE. 


75 


lie  1)0  wed 
Very  humbly,  and  turued  ou  his  heel. 

"I've  allowed 
Major  Mellen  to  say  such  unmerited  things 
Of  ray  sex,  that  I  really  must  silence  his  flings 
In  the  future,  I  fancy,"  she  laughing  remarked. 


They  were  silent  a  little  ;  then  all  disembarked 

For  their  dinner.     A  cool,  grassy  point  that  projected 

From  one  of  the  islands  was  wisely  selected. 

In  si<2;ht  of  the  Lake  of  the  Isles.     There  tlie  trees 

Made  a  murmurous  music  as  stirred  by  the  breeze ; 

The  half-silence  .  as  sweet  with  the  odor  of  flowers  ; 

And  pretty  green  islets,  like  shyly  hid  bowers, 

Slept   there   in    the    sun,  with    their   green   garments 

trailing 
The  water  that  kissed  them,  and  seemed  as  if  sailing 
Adown  a  2:reen  river  to  seas  undiscovered 
By  mortal.     Some  saint  of  the  beautiful  hovered 
About  the  rare  spot,  and  enchanted  it. 

Verily 
Dinner  out-doors  should  be  eaten  quite  merrily 
Ever ;  for  half  of  the  pleasure  j^ou  take  in  it 
Lies  in  the  jovial  mirth  that  you  make  in  it. 
Always  some  flies  will  get  into  the  cream  of  it ; 
Fish  that  are  frying  will  burn  e'er  you  dream  of  it ; 
Milk  that  at  morning  was  sweet  has  been  learning 
The  secret  of  Nature  that  hints  of  a  churning ; 


76 


CERALDINE. 


The  butter  that's  "  come  "  may  have  hastened  by  run- 


ning ; 


Mosquitos,  persistent  with  bills,  keep  a-dunning  ; 

The  table  is  always  a  doubtful  thing  under 

Its  showy  pretences,  and  causes  a  wonder 

If  crockery  rests  in  a  state  of  security  ; 

Coffee  goes  down  with  a  fear  for  its  purity  ; 

Seats  are  uncertain,  and  spiders  abundant," 

The  ladies  complain  :  there  is  nothing  redundant  — 

That's  quite  beyond  question  —  except  it  be  fun  ; 

But  you  almost  regret  when  the  dinner  is  done  ; 

For  the  atmosphere  tones  up  your  nerves  like  a  tonic ; 

The  winds  and  the  waves  make  a  murmur  harmonic ; 

You  sit  in  the  shadows,  and  see  the  wide  world, 

All  its  streamers  of  sunlight  in  splendor  unfurled, 

Roll  along  in  glad  glory  to-morrow  to  meet. 

And  there's  more  in  your  dinner  than  merely  to  eat. 


} 


"When  this  dinner  was  ended,  they  idled  a  while 

On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  evergreen  isle. 

Mr.  Percival  Trent,  idling  dreamily,  laid 

Himself  down,  like  the  dreamer  he  was,  in  the  shade 

Of  a  tree  but  a  step  from  the  others.     To  him 

"Was  the  cup  of  delight  even  full  to  its  brim. 

He  had  laughed  and  made  merry  this  hour  with  the  rest ; 

He  would  taste  now  the  apples  of  gold  that  were  pressed 

To  his  hungering  lips,  —  the  sweet  fancies  that  flitted 

So  bright  through  his  brain. 


GERALDINE. 


77 


"  He  has  saddlod  and  bitted 
His  Pegasus,  certain,"  the  major  declared, 
"  And  is  off  on  a  gallop.     If  any  here  dared 
Overhaul  him  at  present,  I  fear  they  would  find 
It  a  hard  road  to  travel  that's  always  inclined 
To  the  Pisgah  of  dreams." 

' '  I  must  say  it  were  fitter 
To  speak  of  yourself,  seems  to  me,  as  the  bitter  — 
The  bitter  reviler  of  genius  at  times. 
Did  you  try  to  reach  heaven  by  a  ladder  of  rhymes 
Years  ago,  Major  Mellen,  and  fail?" 

"Mrs.  Lee, 
You  are  always  a  mild  inquisition  to  me. 
A  few  people  were  born  with  an  interrogation 
Curled  up  on  the  end  of  their  tongue.     Moderation 
In  questioning  might  be  a  virtue  with  these. 
They  are  slow  with  their  statements,  but  busy  as  bees 
With  conundrums." 

' '  Some  men  never  make  a  reply 
To  the  plainest  of  questions,"  she  said,  "  but  decry 
Every  question  that  misses  their  lips.     I  was  seeking 
A  reason  why  you  should  forever  be  speaking 
So  lightly  of  rhyme  and  its  spirit.     Success 
In  pursuit  of  a  thing  seldom  gives  to  one  less 
Of  respect  for  it. ' ' 

"  Well,  you  are  free  to  impute 
To  me  failure  in  wooing  the  Muse.     To  refute 
Any  false  implication  were  idle  indeed. 


78 


GEltALDINE. 


If  my  lV.,^usiig  proved  but  a  slow-going  steed, 

Aud  1  early  disinouiited  in  common  disgust, 

I've  a  host  of  good  company  plodding  the  dust 

Of  our  highway  afoot.     And  I  fancy  the  way 

Of  the  rhymer,  wherever  his  fancy  may  stray, 

Is  like  that  of  the  wicked  :  I  think,  my  dear  madam. 

The  path  of  the  poet  has  known  its  McAdam." 


"  McAdam  made  hard  what  each  Eve  has  made  easy 
Then,    truly,"    she    answered,    with    laugh    that    was 

breezy 
And  light.     " '  I  incline  to  the  common  belief 
That  the  mother  of  poets  is  love,  and  tlie  chief 
Inspiration  of  rhyme  is  the  sensitive  heart.  — 
Is  it  so,  Mr.  Trent?" 

"  You  have  guessed  it,  m  part, 
Mrs.  Lee.     If  the  rhyme  be  inspired  in  the  least. 
Then  the  heart  or  the  fancy,  by  aid  of  a  priest 
Of  the  pen,  must  have  wedded  itself  to  the  thought. 
And  some  glow  of  true  feeling  is  certainly  caught 
In  the  verse  of  the  rhymer,  when  once  it  be  found 
With  the  laurel  of  true  immortality  crowned. 
I  believe  there  are  volumes  of  rhyme  written  out. 
As  to  which  we  may  harbor  a  lenient  doubt 
If  they  ever  were  born  of  a  true  inspiration. 
The  art  of  mechanics  has  blind  consecration 
In  person  of  some  who  would  wear  the  green  bays 
Of  the  world's  generosity." 


GEllALDINE. 


70 


"  One  of  these  days," 
Said  the  iimjor  wiili  pride,  "  you  may  look  for  a  poet 
111  me.    AVhen  my  lietiit  V.i  full  .svvei)t,  you  will  know  it 
liy  melody  rare  from  its  (quivering  strings. 
As  the  swan  must  be  dying  when  sweetest  he  sings, 
You  may  know  I  have  eome  to  my  al)solute  fate 
AVhen  I  utter  the  notes  that  are  sweetest." 

"The  mate 
Of  the  swan  is  the  goose,  INIajor  INIellen,  that  misses 
The  music  of  better  bred  l)irds  in  its  hisses 
So  sibilant.     He  that  irreverent  moeks 
The  rich  note  of  a  swan  may  produce  a  few  squawks, 
And  betray  his  true  species." 

She  took  a  deliglit, 
As  it  seemed,  in  sarcastic  allusion. 

"  I  might 
Pick  a  quarrel  with  you,  my  good  cousin,  for  words 
So  sarcastic  and  cruel.     Our  mention  of  birds 
Has  evoked  a  whole  jflock  of  the  turbulent  daws 
Over  yonder,  that  utter  their  parrot-like  '  caws  ' 
Like  a  woman  hard  pressed  for  a  sensible  reason. 
To  give  you  back  torment  in  kind  would  be  treason 
To  gallantry,  sore  as  I'm  tempted.     Alas 
That  a  man  is  compelled  to  let  ridicule  pass 
From  a  woman  unanswered  !     To  wish  I  were  one 
Of  the  privileged  sex  I  could  often  have  done, 
Had  I  never  remembered  what  one  of  them  said,  — 
That,  because  as  a  woman  she  never  must  wed 


80 


GEIIALBINE. 


I 


Any  woman,  she  even  could  feel  reconciled 
To  her  lot." 

"  The  good  Montague  painted  it  mild, 
My  dear  major,  for  her.     She  was  talking  for  ]  len 
To  be  pleased,  and  to  quote  her  thereafter.     And  then 
Lady  Mary  was  vexed  that  the  men  should  fare  better 
In  marr^'age  than  women  could  fare." 

"  I  m  your  debtor 
Again,  Mrs.  Lee.     Don't  increase  the  large  debt 
By  some  stroke  of  j^our  tongue  more  sarcastical  yet. 
Let  us  take  to  the  water,  like  ducks,  with  a  quack  ;  " 
And  he  nudged  a  good  doctor  near  by.     "  To  be  back 
At  a  sensible  hour,  we  must  speeaily  str.rt." 


i  ' 


ii ' 


III 


It  I 


All  at  once  went  aboard,  and  prepared  to  depart. 
The  rrain  channel  is  narrow,  that  leads  from  the  lake  ; 
But  a  dozen  make  off  from  it  soon,  and  partake 
Of  the  tint  of  the  little  green  islets.     So  deep 
Is  the  hue  of  the  streams,  that  the  islands,  asleep 
On  their  bosom  with  verdure  lu::uruint,  seem 
To  be  part  of  them  ever.     You  sail  in  a  dream. 
Winding  in,  winding  out,  in  a  labyrinth  sweet 
With  the  wood-blossoms  thick  in  their  silent  retreat ; 
And  you  fancy  that  here,  in  its  beauty  supernal, 
This  '    '  n  afternoon  is  unending,  eternal. 

At  length,  when  emerged  from  the  river's  glad  maze, 
They  were  on  a  broad  channel,  lit  up  by  the  rays 


') 


r 


GEBALDINE.  81 

Of  the  down-going  sun.     Across  yonder,  Canadian 
Hills  sloped  away  in  a  beauty  Arcadian  ; 
Down  the  wide  stream  unobstructed,  the  view 
Rebelled  afar  to  the  low-bending  canopy  blue  ; 
On  the  right,  close  at  hand,  were  the  Paradise  Isles, 
Trith  their  loveliness  spanning  the  magical  miles  ; 
Over  all,  the  soft  glamour  of  sunset,  as  calm 
And  serene  as  the  peace  of  a  hallowing  psalm. 

*'  The  St.  Lawrence  is  waiting  its  laureate  yet, 
Mr.  Trent.     With  your  words  to  its  melody  set, 
It  might  come  to  its  own  by  and  by." 

There  was  ever 
In  Mrs.  Lee's  tone  a  mild  flattery. 

"Never 
Can  measure  and  melody  happier  wed, 
I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Lee,"  hesitating,  he  said, 
"  Than  in  Moore's  little  lyric  of  days  long  ago, 
When  he  echoed  the  musical  '  Row,  brothers,  row,' 
Of  Canadian  boatmen.     Its  mellowing  flow 
I  recall  very  often  at  twilight.     He  penned  it 
Not  fai  down  the  river,  whose  placid  waves  lend  it 
A  charm  I  shall  never  forget." 

"  E  .w  could  Moore, 
Having  seen  the  St.  Lawrence,  return  to  the  poor. 
Meagre  life  he  had  known  ?    If  you  happen  to  learn 
Why  those  poets  who  visit  here  ever  retui'n 


i 


fi 


82 


GERALL^NE. 


To  the  feverish  towns,  will  you  tell  me  ?    It  seems 
To  me  certain  that  this  is  the  river  of  dreams." 


■I 


"  Do  men  die  in  their  dreams,  Mrs.  Lee?     If  they  did. 

Then  the  ruin  and  wreck  of  some  lives  would  be  hid 

In  a  merciful  way  from  their  heeding.     "We  live 

As  we  must.     'Tis  not  all  a  receiving.     We  give 

Of  ourselves  to  the  world,  in  return  for  its  gifts. 

Every  hindrance  or  help  that  in  some  manner  lifts 

Us  up  nearer  the  ideal  life  should  be  held 

For  the  good  of  our  fellows.     The  hermit,  impelled 

To  a  lonely  and  selfish  career,  only  cheats 

His  own  being.     His  life  is  a  canker,  that  eats 

Out  his  soul.    We  may  dream  now  and  then  by  the  way, 

But  to  take  on  the  armor,  and  fight  as  we  may 

When  our  respite  is  over. " 

"  All  poets,  I  thought 
Till  I  knew  you,  were  dreamers  forever,  and  fought 
Eut  in  fancy.     You  seem  to  be  double  :  you  carry 
An  active  and  passive  that  will  not  quite  marry 
In  one  ;  for  you  work  and  you  dream,  and  do  each 
To  the  uttermost.     What  a  magnificent  reach 
There  must  be  and  there  is  to  your  life  !     Do  you  feel 
How  much  broader  it  is  than  the  most  ?  " 

"  Don't  reveal" 
My  conceit,  Mrs.  Lee,  with  j^our  questions,"  he  parried. 
"  I  think  that  myself  is  quite  happily  married 
To  all  that  is  in  me.     My  labor  and  rest 


OERALDINE. 


83 


Never  trouble  each  other.     My  vigor  and  zest 

With  my  indolence  ever  are  fully  agreed  : 

I'm  as  willing  to  stop  as  I  am  to  proceed, 

When  a  good  time  for  stopping  has  come.     And  the 

scope 
Of  all  life  is  the  same,  —  from  the  fear  to  the  hope. 
From  the  doubt  of  the  mortal,  far  on,  till  it  holds 
By  the  Infinite,  where  the  immortal  unfolds 
Into  trust.     There  is  never  a  being  more  broad 
Than  to  reach  from  itself  to  the  merciful  God." 


After  that,  they  were  thoughtful  and  silent  a  while. 

A  rare  flush  on  the  sky  held  the  grace  of  a  smile, 

As  if  heaven,  bending  over  the  earth  in  its  sleep, 

Saw  a  beauty  to  win  it,  ere  pausing  to  weep 

In  the  dews  of  the  night,  over  sadness  and  sorrow 

That  darkened  to-day,  and  must  sadden  to-morrow. 

The  evening  wore  on  with  much  laughter  and  jest 

From  the  others.     The  glow  faded  out  of  the  west ; 

And  the  stars,  in  their  marvellous  shimmer  and  sheen, 

Like  a  glimmer  of  glory,  fell  softly  between 

The  old  day  and  the  new.     'Twas  a  time  to  be  glad 

In  some  quiet  of  soul  such  as  he  must  have  had. 

Who,  asleep  on  the  plain,  saw  a  ladder  of  light, 

And  the  angels  of  G  od  bringing  peace  through  the  night. 


By  and  by  they  swung  round,  and  across  the  broad 
eweep 


rT" 


84 


GERALBINE. 


Of  the  river  below,  as  along  the  soft  steep 
Of  the  sky  the  late  moon  slowly  climbed. 

"  It  has  been 
A  rare  da}^,  Mrs.  Lee.     If  one  never  could  win 
His  lost  paradise  back,  had  he  known  days  like  this 
He  coul('  make  for  himself  a  few  ages  of  bliss 
Out  of  memory.'* 

"  Woman  lost  Eden  to  man ; 
But  he  finds  it  again  in  her  love.** 

"If  he  can,** 
Said  the  major,  near  by,  who  had  half  overheard. 


*'  If  he  will^  I  suggest  ls  the  much  truer  word,** 
Mrs.  Lee  quick  retorted. 

"  Oh,  well,  he  is  willing 
Forever,  good  cousin,"  he  answered,  "and  thrilling 
Quite  often  with  sense  of  a  paradise  new. 
But  as  often  thrust  out  of  it.     Eves  have  been  true 
To  their  early  example  always." 

"Mr.  Trent, 
Is  there  nothing  can  make  Major  Mellen  repent 
Such  heretical  speeches?  " 

But  Trent  only  smiled. 
"  He  has  nothing,  in  fact,  to  repent  of.     Such  wild 
And  erratic  assertions  serve  nought  from  his  lips, 
But  to  i)ut  for  a  moment  his  thought  in  eclipse. 
As  we  all  are  aware.     He's  a  genius  for  saying 
What  nobody  doubts  more  than  he  does." 


GEBALDINE. 


85 


u 


But  praying 
Tho  pardon  of  poets  for  trespassing  thus 
As  a  poacher  upon  their  dominion,  and  plus 
The  humility  even  /  feel  to  be  found 
By  a  poet  himself  on  the  privileged  ground 
Without  proper  consent,  I  would  emphasize  keenly 
The  right  of  all  men  to  what  poets  serenely 
Accept  for  themselves,  —  to  exaggerate  feeling, 
Dissemble  the  thought  they  profess  to  revealing, 
Make  statements  as  fact  that  are  half  absurd  fancies, 
And  build  upon  fiction  their  idle  romances.' 


>> 


The  major  talked  smoothly  at  times,  with  that  flavor 
Satirical  still  in  his  words. 

' '  There  are  graver 
And  guiltier  crimes.  Major  Mellen,  than  one 
You  accuse  yourself  of,  and  then  hasten  to  run 
To  excuses  for  ever  committing  it.     Stay 
In  the  poets'  preserves  quite  as  long  as  you  may, 
I  can  promise  that  they  will  forgive  the  affront, 
If  you  bring  us  some  game  at  the  end  of  your  hunt," 
Mrs.  Lee  made  him  answer. 

"  Don't  make  game  of  me 
In  such  cold-blooded  fashion,  I  beg,  Mrs.  Lee. 
We  are  near  to  the  landing,  let  all  disembark 
Before  you  shall  cruelly  fire  the  whole  park 
Of  artillery  light  which  is  hid  in  your  speech : 
There  are  others,  you  know,  who  might  be  within  reach." 


'I! 
ill 


86 


GERALBINE. 


So  with  laughter  and  jest  the  day  came  to  its  close 
For  them  all  far  along  in  the  evening,     llepose 
Was  as  sweet  as  the  day  had  been  rare,  and  the  vision 
Of  dreams  that  it  brought  had  a  beauty  Elysian. 


# 


QERALLINE, 


87 


X. 


After  this,  there  were  clays  upon  clays  of  delight 
Unalloyed.     Percy  Trent  wrote  to  Geraldine  quite 
An  unselfish  account  of  his  generous  pleasure. 
"  I  find  in  mere  being,"  he  said,  "  such  a  measure 
Of  happy  content  as  I  never  have  dreamed 
When  away  from  your  side.    Never  gladness  so  gleamed 
In  the  sunlight,  as  simply  perennial  seems 
To  one  lingering  here  on  the  River  of  Dreams, 
As  the  bright  Mrs.  Lee  christens  it.     It  is  queer 
That  herself  and  the  major  should  chance  to  be  here 
The  same  season  with  me.     I  am  glad  that  they  came, 
Though  their  purpose  and  mine  are  not  nearly  the  same. 
They  are  here  just  to  lose  a  few  weeks  out  of  life  : 
I  am  dreaming,  the  better  to  bear  in  the  strife 
A  man's  part  by  and  by.     It  is  well  to  recruit 
For  the  battle  to  be.     It  is  well  that  the  lute 
Should  hang  silent  a  while,  that  to-morrow  its  song 
May  be  clearer  and  truer,  more  certain  and  strong. 
Major  Mellen  is  much  as  he  was  long  ago. 
Only  bitterer  grown  in  his  speech  ;  but  we  know. 
Who  have  known  him  the  longest,  how  much  that  he 
feigns 


1^ 


88 


GERALBINE. 


Ill 


To  be  earnest  is  said  for  effect.     That  he  pains 
Me  at  times  witli  his  cynical  sneers,  I  admit, 
Notwitlistanding ;  and  often  I  laugh  at  his  wit, 
When  I  grieve  with  a  liurt  that  is  sudden  and  keen. 
For  he  spares  not  the  holiest  things.     He  has  seen 
Some  experience  sad,  I'm  persuaded,  —  more  sad 
That  its  influence  seems  to  be  lastingly  bad. 
He  was  always  a  doubter  of  every  thing  true. 
As  a  fact,  or  in  word.     '  Give  the  devil  his  due,* 
After  all ;  and  the  major  has  many  good  traits. 
Me  is  capital  company  often,  and  hates 
Every  sham  with  a  hatred  that  urges  assault 
Of  the  fiercest.     I  fancy,  at  times,  that  his  fault 
Of  condemning  the  right  has  grown  out  of  long  seeing 
So  much  of  the  wrong  and  the  false,  and  of  being 
So  keenly  alive  to  pretence. 

"Mrs.  Lee 
And  myself  are  the  best  of  good  friends,  if  to  be 
Always  frank  and  outspoken  together,  to  find 
Satisfaction  in  similar  moods  of  the  mind, 
To  have  sympathies  somewhat  in  common,  may  make 
Us  all  that.     She  has  known,  I  am  certain,  the  ache 
Of  a  heart  that  is  strong  in  its  passion,  unfolding 
Its  riches  with  never  a  thought  of  withholding,  — 
The  pain  that  I  fancy  some  women  must  keep 
Throughout  life,  in  a  poverty  wretched  and  deep 
That  was  born  of  their  prodigal  love.     Is  there  balm 
For  such  aching  of  soul  ?    In  the  liberal  palm 


GERALDTNE. 


89 


Of  the  white  hand  of  Peace,  is  there  quiet  and  rest 
For  such  throl)bings  of  pain  in  so  troubled  a  breast? 
I  am  syUablino;  questions  I  only  have  thought 
Hitherto.     Thougl;  quite  often  with  her,  I  have  sought 
In  no  manner  to  learn  what  her  sorrow  has  been  — 
What  it  has  been,  perchance  what  it  is.     I  begin 
To  be  reverent  even  in  presence  of  souls 
That  have  hidden  away  in  their  silence  the  scrolls 
Of  their  own  revelation.     No  idle  perusal 
May  learn  of  the  secrets  they  hold  in  refusal 
From  men. 

"  I  suspect  Mrs.  Lee  knew  the  arts 
Of  a  finished  coquette,  and  made  playthings  of  hearts, 
In  some  earlier  time  :  there's  no  hinting,  however, 
Of  conquest  to-day  in  her  social  endeavor. 
She  treats  all  her  friends  in  a  courteous  way 
That  is  pleasant  to  see  ;  but  I  think  she  could  play 
A  sad  havoc  with  feelings  the  tenderest  still, 
If  to  times  opportune  she  but  added  the  will. 
Do  I  hold  her  the  less  in  respect  for  believing 
She  may  have  been  guilty  of  ruthless  receiving, 
Aware  that  she  could  not  give  back  in  return  ? 
It  is  true  that  I  might,  if  I  yet  had  to  learn 
That  a  woman  wrongs  man  just  to  gratify  her 
Present  mood,  not  to  scarify  him.     I  demur 
But  the  least  to  her  pleasing  herself,  if  the  hurt 
She  inflict  be  not  truly  malicious.     A  flirt 
Who  should  send  a  man  off  into  grimmest  despair, 


I 


1 

I 


T 
li 


II 


Hi  I 


90 


GERALDINE. 


Just  to  see  him  writhe  on  in  his  agony  there, 
I  would  simply  despite  ;  but  a  woman  delighting 
Herself  with  the  winning  of  love,  and  inviting 
Its  largess  for  pleasure  it  gives  her  alone  — 
Why,  her  motive  might  partly,  in  my  view,  atone 
For  the  harm  growing  out  of  her  deed.     For  of  right 
A  man  owes  to  your  sex  all  the  wealth  of  delight 
He  is  able  to  pay. 

' '  Do  you  smile  at  my  reasoning  ? 
Well,  you  will  pardon  a  moderate  seasoning 
Of  the  absurd  in  my  argument.     Those 
Who  are  victims  of  feminine  art,  I  suppose, 
Judge  more  harshly  than  I  do  concerning  it.     You, 
Who  so  easily  might  have  made  many  to  rue 
Tour  attractiveness,  ought  with  compassion  to  look 
On  another  who  possibly  some  time  forsook 
The  true  heights  of  her  womanhood,  found  the  low  plane 
Of  coquetry,  and  made  of  her  beauty  a  vain 
Ignis  fatuus^  leading  some  men  to  their  grief. 
I  have  half  been  inclined  to  the  foolish  belief 
That  the  major  has  suffered  from  Mrs.  Lee's  lack 
Of  requital  in  fullest  degree  ;  that  far  back 
In  his  younger  young  manhood  he  loved  her,  as  men 
Like  himself  are  not  apt  to  love  ever  again. 
And  why  not?    They  were  friends  long  ago,  it  appears. 
In  a  friendship  that  not  very  seldom  endears 
To  the  uttermost  one  or  the  other  who  feels  it. 
If  sensitive  yet  from  the  hurt,  he  conceals  it 


GERALBINE. 


91 


Ecmarkably  well,  it  is  true  ;  yet  a  stoical 
Katurc  like  his  may  be  truly  heroical, 
Smiling  despite  of  its  pain. 

"  But  you  care 
Very  little  for  him  or  his  past,  I'm  aware  : 
I'll  not  speak  of  them  further.     And  as  to  my  present, 
I  own  that  I  find  it  so  wondrously  pleasant, 
I  would  not  consign  it  to  yesterday  soon. 
The  fair  land  of  the  Future  may  yield  as  its  boon 
Such  another  rare  season  of  beauty  and  bliss  ; 
But  I  doubt  if  I  find  it  hereafter  in  this." 

So  he  gave  himself  up  to  his  rhapsodies  mild 
When  he  wrote  of  the  river.     Its  beauties  beguiled 
Ilim  to  frequent  extravagant  speech.     That  his  eyes 
Saw  no  every-day  beauty  with  aught  of  surprise 
She  knew  well.     Was  there  loveliness  for  him  so  rare 
As  alone  to  enchant  him  thus  utterly  ?     Fair 
As  the  River  of  Dreams  might  appear  in  his  sight, 
Could  it  thrill  him  to  keenest  ecstatic  delight 
With  its  beauty  alone?     Did  no  presence  apart 
From  inanimate  things  take  a  hold  on  his  heart 
As  with  masterful  sweetness  ? 

If  questions  like  these 
Were  in  Geraldine's  thought,  by  the  slowest  degrees 
Did  they  syllables  take,  and  then  ask  to  be  heard 
Of  her  love.     And  no  query  of  wonder,  no  word 
Of  inquiry,  escaped  her  to  him.     It  was  well 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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92 


GEBALBINE. 


That  he  linger  thus  long  at  the  Islands  to  tell 
Her  of  beauty  and  blessing  they  yielded  him.     So 
She  made  answer  in  brief,  and  was  glad  in  the  glow 
Of  his  gladness,  without  a  foreboding  or  dread. 
She  could  trust,  and  would  trust  to  the  end,  she  had  said ; 
And  the  end  must  be  well,  let  it  bring  what  it  would, 
Since  a  Father  so  loving  and  tender  and  good 
Had  its  shaping  and  care. 

There  are  natures  that  keep 
Such  a  faith  in  such  wise  ;  but,  if  moved  to  the  deep 
Of  their  possible  doubting,  the  tempest  that  rages 
Within  them  so  wild  there  is  nothing  assuages 
But  words  of  the  Master,  with  tenderest  thrill 
Speaking  out  through  the  darkness  their  *' Peace!*' 
and"BestiUl'* 


m 


GEBALBINE. 


93 


XI. 


They  had  dined  at  Deer  Island,  a  dozen  or  more 
Of  the  seekers  for  pleasure.     A  half-shaded  shore 
Gave  them  welcome  ;  its  turf,  that  was  mossy  and  sweet, 
Running  down  to  the  water  to  welcome  their  feet ; 
And  its  trees,  that  were  sentinels  faithful  and  strong 
Of  the  years,  breathing  out  a  monotonous  song 
Of  old  summers  departed,  half  song  and  half  sigh, 
And  inviting  them  listless  and  dreamy  to  lie 
In  the  quivering  shadows  when  dinner  was  done : 
So  they  lingered  in  happy  abandon.     The  sun, 
When  they  took  to  their  boats,  had  sunk  low  in  the  west, 
And  the  night  would  be  moonless  ;  the  river's  fair  breast 
Was  resplendent  with  ripples  of  silver  and  gold 
As  the  breezes  sprang  up,  and,  with  dalliance  bold 
And  with  passionate  kisses,  beguiled  its  repose 
Into  sighing  unrest.     They  were  near  to  the  close 
Of  a  glad  day  together,  —  these  two  we  have  traced 
In  their  talk  and  their  feeling  a  while. 

"It's  a  waste 
Of  fine  weather  to  think  of  returning  so  soon," 
Mrs.  Lee  made  remark.     "  And  this  whole  aftern6on 
Has  gone  by  like  a  dream.     Do  I  live,  Mr.  Trent? 


I 


94 


GERALDINE. 


Do  I  verily  sip  the  sweet  cup  of  content 
As  it  seems  that  I  do  ?    Is  regret  but  a  thing 
Of  the  past?" 

"  Into  seasons  like  this  not  a  sting 
^Of  old  memories  ever  should  enter,"  he  said. 
*'  Let  the  dead  of  j'our  yesterdays  bury  its  dead  ; 
Drink  the  cup  of  content  with  no  lingering  glances 
Behind.     There  is  joy  in  the  present.     Romances 
Forever  abide  in  the  future.     Look  out 
On  the  shall-be  as  I  do,  with  never  a  doubt 
Of  its  bringing  the  best  of  your  being." 

He  lifted 
The  oars  as  he  spoke,  and  they  silently  drifted 
Adown  the  still  stream. 

*'  Do  you  never  feel  fear 
Of  the  future?  "  she  asked.    "  Do  you  never  seem  near 
To  some  terrible  tragedy  ?    Are  you  so  certain 
Of  good  you  could  lift  the  invisible  curtain 
Of  years  with  no  tremor  of  heart?  " 

With  surprise 
He  looked  deep  in  the  depths  of  her  beautiful  eyes 
Ere  he  answered,  ^ — 

"  My  friend,  you  are  keen  at  divining 
Some  thoughts  unexpressed  ;  for  I  have  been  inclining 
To  fear  of  my  morrows  of  late.     And  I  stand. 
As  I  fancy  at  times,  on  debatable  land, 
Between  gladness  and  grief.     In  these  days  of  delight 
X  am  far  up  the  mouutams  of  being,  in  sight 


GEEALBINE. 


95 


Of  that  Beulah  where  grief  is  unknown  ;  but  I  know 
There  are  valleys  of  Baca  through  which  men  must 

go 
Ere  they  climb  to  the  summits  of  blessing.     I  wait 

With  a  painful  expectancy,  early  or  late, 

The  upwellings  of  fountains  of  bitterness.     When 

They  appear,  I  must  drink,  as  do  all  other  men." 

*' And  some  women,"  she  added :  "  indeed,  you  might 

say 
And  all  women.     The  waters  that  flow  by  the  way 
Are  as  Marah  sometimes." 

"There  are  few,  I  believe, 
Who  drink  only  the  sweetness  of  life.     But  to  grieve 
Over  sorrow  gone  by  is  not  worse  than  to  shrink 
From  some  possible  sorrow  before.     We  must  drink 
The  full  cup  of  to-morrow,  whatever  the  draught ; 
But,  or  bitter  or  sweet,  it  is  not  to  be  quaffed 
Till  to-morrow  presents  it.     Sufficient  indeed 
To  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof ;  and  the  need 
Of  U3  all  is  a  present  of  glad  satisfaction. 
Where  nought  of  the  past  makes  unhappy  exaction, 
And  nought  of  the  future  repels  or  dismays." 


"  And  you  live  in  the  present?  "  returning  his  gaze, 
"Altogether,  I  mean,  with  no  pain  of  the  past 
Throbbing  up^  and  no  glamour  of  happiness  cast 
On  the  days  that  are  coming?  " 


-1 


96 


GEBALBINE. 


r 


He  smiled  a  reply 
Before  speaking. 

"  My  patient  confessor,  if  I 
Should  admit  that  I  look  for  some  gladness  supreme 
In  the  future,  that,  doing  to-day,  I  but  dream 
Of  endeavor  the  proudest  to-morrow,  'twould  seem 
Contradictory.     I  have  admitted  the  truth, 
That  I  fear  in  the  future  some  possible  ruth 
Full  of  peril  to  peace  ;  that  I  shrink  from  my  morrows 
In  doubt.     But  the  future  is  broad ;  and  it  borrows 
A  radiance  often  from  glories  that  crown 
Us  with  gladness  to-day.     And  I  never  look  down 
The  long  vista  of  years,  without  seeing  beyond 
All  their  possible  gloom  an  illuming  as  fond 
As  the  kjsses  of  dawn  on  the  world.     I  am  glad 
Of  some  day  that's  to  be.     If  one  morrow  prove  sad, 
I  shall  come  to  another,  please  God  !  " 

"A  glad  faith," 
She  responded.     "But  what  of  the  past?    Does  no 

wraith 
Of  some  buried  desire  ever  enter  your  room, 
As  you  sit  in  the  silence  of  solitude's  gloom. 
And  torment  you  with  words  of  regret  ?   You  have  said, 
*  Let  the  dead  of  your  yesterdays  bury  its  dead.* 
Do  your  dead  never  walk  ?    Is  there  never  a  ghost 
Of  dead  love  or  dead  hope  to  intrude  when  you  most 
Would  forget  that  yoi;  ever  had  hollowed  a  grave  ? 
Does  your  past  sink  away,  as  this  shell  in  the  wave. 


GERALDINE. 


97 


Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind  ?  ' '  and  she  tossed  a  bright  shell 
She  had  held,  in  the  water. 

' '  No  funeral  knell 
Has  been  rung  in  my  past,"  he  responded  with  feeling, 
His  sympathy  touched  by  her  sudden  revealing 
Of  hidden  emotion.     "  I've  stood  by  no  bier 
Of  my  love  or  my  hope.     I  can  sit  with  you  here, 
And  can  say  that  my  past  has  been  pleasant  and  good ; 
That  my  present  you  make,  as  but  one  other  could, 
Satisfying,  complete."     And  he  noted  the  glow 
Of  a  tenderer  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  flow 
Of  a  deeper  tint  into  her  face.     "  I  regret^ 
Only  duty  ill  done.     I  can  never  forget 
What  is  gone,  let  it  be  whatsoever  it  may  ;         ^ 
Not  the  less  would  I  live  as  I  should  in  to-day, 
But  remembering  yesterday  only  for  smiles 
That  it  gave  " — 

"  Seeing  somewhere  the  paradise  isles 
Of  your  dream  by  the  sea?  "  interrupting  him. 

"Yes, 
Looking  out  on  the  billows  before,  I  confess 
In  the  faith  that  beyond  their  unrest  there  '^'^  calm 
For  us  all  in  the  infinite  islands  of  balm." 


"  Will  you  teach  me  your  faith?     I  am  hungry  for  hope 
In  the  years.     With  the  greatest  of  griefs  I  could  cope, 
Could  I  only  believe  that  beyond  it  is  bliss. 
You  have  much  to  make  glad  :  there  is  much  that  I  miss, 


i 


98 


GERALDINE, 


<  r 


1 


> 


H 


And  but  little  I  hold,  and  of  this  you  have  given 
The  most.    On  the  wings  of  your  friendship  I've  striven 
To  mount  where  the  lark  of  your  happiness  sings  : 
I  am  weighted  too  heavy,  I  fear,  for  the  wings, 
Since  I  cannot  fly  far,  and  each  flight  only  brings 
Its  discouragement." 

"  Would  I  could  lift  you  with  me 
To  the  heights  of  a  happy  content,  Mrs.  Lee ! 
To  do  this,  my  dear  friend,  I  would  cheerfully  give 
Half  a  year  of  the  life  that  is  left  me  to  live." 

She  but  smiled  at  his  words. 

"  I  doubt  not,  my  dear  friend, 
You  would  give,  quite  as  freely  as  others  would  lend. 
All  you  have  —  but  the  one  thing  you  cannot. ' ' 

"And  that?" 

She  was  silent  a  little,  and  motionless  sat. 
Looking  into  the  depths  of  the  shimmering  deep. 

"  Is  a  love  that  is  tender  and  strong,  that  can  sweep 
Me  up  out  of  the  gloom  with  its  passionate  grasp. 
And  then  hold  me  content  in  the  quickening  clasp 
Of  its  sunlight,  —  the  love  of  a  masterful  heart 
Full  of  power,  most  learned  in  the  delicate  art 
Of  its  loving,  most  tender  and  loving  indeed 
When  its  pity  could  see  there  was  bitterest  need  — 
Such  a  love  as  a  man  gives  one  woman  in  life. ' ' 


QEItALDINE. 


09 


"  And  God  pity  him,  then  if  she  be  not  his  wife, 
Or  may  not  be  !  "  he  said  with  quick  fervor, 

"And  she 
Who  so  needs  such  a  love,  in  whose  heart  there  can  be 
Such  a  hunger  without  it?" 

"God  pity  her  too, 
In  his  infinite  love,  as  all  loving  souls  do  !  " 


There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  questioned :  each  word 

Had  a  thrill  that  was  strange  as  he  answered.    She  heard , 

And  was  silent  again  for  a  moment,  averting 

ller  face  from  his  gaze.     Sudden  passion  asserting 

Itself  in  his  breast,  like  a  prisoner  beating 

Against  the  hard  bars  of  his  prison,  entreating 

For  liberty,  moved  him  beyond  his  control. 

He  was  swayed  by  a  tempest  undreamed  of.     His  soul. 

Looking  out  of  its  windows  of  feeling,  saw  only 

Another  soul,  helpless  and  hopeless  and  lonely, 

And  groping  so  after  some  path  to  the  light 

And  the  cheer  he  could  give  as  he  must.     In  his  sight 

She  was  near  to  the  heights  he  had  named.     He  30uld 

lift 
Her  to  peace  and  content  by  the  plenteous  gift 
Of  his  love,  that  was  giving  itself  as  if  now 
It  had  first  love's  sweet  charity  learned,  — to  endow 
Needy  being  with  riches  untold. 

Ere  he  broke 
Into  utterance  wild  and  vehement,  she  spoke. 


rr 


100 


GERALBINE. 


"  I'm  but  one  of  a  thousand  who  hunger  and  thirst 
For  their  manna  in  Egypt ;  who  wander  accursed 
In  a  wilderness  dreary,  forever  unblest 
By  the  gift  of  that  land  which  they  should  have  possessed 
But  for  doubting  and  fears.     I  shall  die  in  my  Edom, 
And  know  not  the  gladness  of  faith  that  is  freedom, 
And  service  of  heart  that  is  scripture  the  sweetest. 
My  lot  with  the  heathen  Egyptian  were  meetest, 
Unled  by  the  Moses  of  love  toward  a  land 
I  may  never  behold.'* 

"  When  I  gave  you  my  hand 
As  your  friend,  Mrs.  Lee,  I  had  little  to  offer 
Of  worth,  as  I  said  ;  and,  if  now  I  should  proffer 
Such  love  as  you  speak  of,  it  might  seem  as  meagre 
To  you."     He  spoke  low,  with  an  emphasis  eager 
And  quick.     "  CowZd  I  lead  to  the  plenty  that  lies 
Beyond  Edom?     My  soul  in  its  solitude  cries 
For  companionship  such  as  it  never  has  missed 
Till  this  hour.     In  the  silence  I  tremble  and  list 
For  your  answer. " 

She  looked  in  his  eloquent  face 
With  a  hungering  look  thai  will  ever  have  place 
In  his  memory,  tears  overflowing  her  cheeks. 


"  You  must  hear  how  my  heart  in  its  gratitude  speaks 
A  reply  that  my  lips  cannot  utter.     Its  throbs 
Are  so  strong,  they  would  shape  all  my  words  into  sobs, 
Did  I  try.     As  the  call  of  a  bird  to  its  mate 


GERALIJINE. 


101 


That  has  lingered  too  long,  and  is  home-flyiug  late, 
Even  winning  and  tender  as  this  is  the  cry 
Of  your  soul  unto  mine  ;  and  as  glad  would  it  fly,  — 
This  poor  shivering  soul  that  is  silent  so  long,  — 
Full  as  glad  would  it  mount  to  the  summits  of  song 
With  your  own  by  its  side,  as  when,  night-shadows  gone, 
The  glad  warblers  will  wing  themselves  up  to  the  dawn 
In  a  sunburst  of  music.     My  comrade  and  friend, 
Could  you  walk  with  me  now,  from  this  day  to  the  end, 
You  could  be  —  ah,  how  keenly  I  feel  it  and  know  it !  — 
Both  heaven  and  the  way.    But  you  cannot.     The  poet 
Within  you  may  pity  my  need  ;  and  the  man, 
In  his  passion  of  feeling  that  generous  ran 
To  my  help,  may  give  all  that  he  hath,  even  this 
That  is  treasure  the  greatest  of  all :  but  the  bliss 
Of  possession  can  never  be  mine.     Do  not  ask 
Any  reason.     For  you  I  have  lifted  the  mask 
Of  my  heart,  and  you  see  it  all  quivering  here, 
As  none  other  has  seen  or  will  see  it." 

* '  So  near 
Have  I  come,  as  you  say,  my  dear  friend,  to  your  side, 
To  be  put  thus  away  ?    Let  whatever  betide, 
You  must  linger  a  while  in  my  love.     You  have  waited 
Too  lonely  and  long  for  the  comrade  belated 
By  fate,  to  repel  him,  or  bid  him  farewell 
With  a  half-recognition.     My  passion  must  tell 
Its  sweet  story  yet  over  and  over  again 
In  your  tars.     I  must  give  you  with  lips  and  with  pen, 


102 


GEltALDTXE. 


As  a  i)rocligal  gives,  of  the  wealth  of  my  heart, 
Till  you  go  from  your  poverty  gladly  apart, 
And  I  wauder  a  pauper  forever,  unless 
You  are  prodigal  too  in  return.     I  would  bless 
And  be  blest.     May  I  not  ? ' ' 

So  he  pleaded,  the  strength 
Of  his  passion  possessing  him  quite,  till  at  length 
It  had  mastered  him  utterly.     Could  she  withstand 
Such  entreaty  ? 

"  My  friend,  when  you  gave  me  your  hand 
As  my  friend,  you  gave  much  to  a  beggar  for  much, 
And  your  friendship  had  in  it  a  hallowing  touch 
That  uplifted.     My  life  had  been  swept  passion-clean. 
As  I  thought.     In  my  desert  no  budding  of  green 
Could  give  beauty  again,  I  believed.     You  have  shown 
My  mistake  ;  but  not  less  must  I  wander  alone 
Through  the  wilderness  ever.     Some  manna  is  mine 
By  the  way ;  and  this  day's  is  the  nearest  divine, 
And  the  sweetest,  that  ever  my  hungering  soul 
Has  made  feast  of.     If  only  such  generous  dole 
Could  be  mine  through  the  years  !  "  with  a  passionate 

thrill 
Overflowing  her  speech. 

"  As  it  can,  if  you  will," 
He  persisted. 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  No  more, 
It*  you  love  me.     But  see  !  we  are  far  from  the  shore, 


QETtALDINE. 


103 


Aud  a  storm  is  approaching."     And  as  she  thus  spoke, 
On  the  twilight's  dim  silence  a  thunder-peal  broke, 
Aud  aroused  him. 

Quick  over  the  north  there  had  spread 
A  black  gathering  mass,  that  grew  dense  overhead 
AVhile  he  looked.    A  dull  moan  was  borne  out  on  the  air 
From  the  pines  in  the  distance.    The  day,  that  was  fair 
As  a  vision  of  peace,  had  departed  in  wrath 
That  would  quickly  envelop  them.     Straight  in  the  path 
Of  the  storm  they  were  floating,  as  stoutly  he  bent 
To  his  oars  without  answer,  and  rapidly  sent 
The  light  craft  o'er  the  water. 

"  Some  shelter  we'll  find 
Over  yonder,  I  think,  if  we  do  not  much  mind 
What  it  is,"  by  and  by  he  remarked.     "  It  is  plain 
That  the  deluge  will  come  very  soon.     We  must  gain 
Any  harbor  that  offers." 

He  rowed  with  his  might, 
While  the  storm,  sweeping  on  with  the  speed  of  the  night 
That  it  deepened  too  early,  was  nearing  them  fast. 
And  they  heard  the  wild  shriek  of  its  trumpeting  blast. 


mi 


104 


GERALMNE. 


xn. 

A  MAGNIFICENT  picturc  he  saw  as  ho  rowed : 

On  his  left,  in  the  west,  there  yet  lingered  and  glowed 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun,  in  a  light  that  was  yellow 

As  gold,  and  suffusing  the  sky  with  their  mellow 

iiiffulgenee  ;  the  clouds  coming  nearest  were  red 

As  the  crimson  that  flows  from  the  battle-field's  dead, 

And  above  them  were  opal  and  purple  and  gray  ; 

To  the  north,  moving  forward  in  martial  array, 

Were  dense  masses  of  darkness,  and  through  them  the 

flame 
Of  the  lightning  burned  swift  ere  the  thunder-peals  camo 
With  thoir  torrent  of  sound.     Far  away,  where  the 

sky 
In  the  lap  of  the  hills  appeared  closest  to  ilc. 
The  black  mass  became  silvern  ;  for  rain  hau  begun 
In  the  valley  beyond,  where  the  lingering  sun 
Threw  its  light  on  a  lower  horizon. 

On  swept 
The  dark  masses  above,  while  the  silvern  sheet  kept 
Its  way  slower  and  gentler  below,  like  a  veil 
Slipping  down  o'er  the  world  in  compassion.    The  gale 
Would  be  on  them  before  they  could  land,  so  it  seemed. 


GERALDINE. 


\0[ 


More  intense  grew  the   darkness  o'erhead ;   brighter 

gleamed 
The  mad  lightning,  more  frequent  its  flame  ;  all  the  west 
Id  a  moment  was  shrouded  in  shadow      The  crest 
Of  each  wave,  as  the  water  grew  wilder  apace, 
Led  the  swift-flying  boat  on  a  wearying  race 
For  the  shore.    Yet  the  strokes  of  the  rower  were  strong. 
Though  he  wearied.     The  storm  was  at  hand  ;  but  the 

long 
Way  was  over  at  last,  as  he  lifted  the  skiff 
Half  its  length  on  the  sand,  at  the  base  of  a  cliff 
Not  too  steep  for  their  climbing. 

"I'll  draw  up  the  boat, 
So  the  waves  cannot  easily  wash  it  afloat," 
Nearly  breathless  he  said,  as  he  helped  her  alight. 
"  There's  a  cottage  here  somewhere,  I'm  certain,  which 

might 
Give  us  shelter  the  best,  could  we  find  it.     The  island 
Is  small,  I  imagine.     We'll  climb  to  the  highland 
And  see."  -  . 

So  they  bent  their  steps  upward,  her  hand 
In  his  own.     On  the  highest  uplift  of  the  land, 
In  the  midst  of  a  grove  rather  scanty,  appeared 
A  low  cabin  untenanted.     Even  this  cheered 
Their  endeavor,  and  led  them  a  welcome  to  seek 
From  its  shelter  uncertain.     The  door  offered  weak 
And  quick- conquered  resistance.    They  entered  as  down 
Fell  the  rain  in  a  flood. 


ll 


106 


GERALDINE. 


"  We're  not  likely  to  drown, 
Anyhow,  Mrs.  Lee,  though  the  prospect  is  dark 
As  when  old  Father  Noah  set  sail  in  his  ark. 
How  the  floods  of  our  deluge  unsparingly  pour ! 
Hear  the  winds  and  the  rain  as  they  bellow  and  roar 
Through   the   trees !      See  the  lightning  that  blazes 

above  us, 
As  if  the  dear  Lord  had  forgotten  to  love  us, 
And  came  to  us  now  in  his  wrath !     It  is  worth 
A  day's  wetting  to  witness  him  visit  the  earth 
In  the  might  of  his  power." 

She  shuddered,  and  drew 
Herself  nearer  in  dread.     A  fierce  thunderbolt  flew 
Past  their  sight,  and  a  crash,  as  if  worlds  in  collision 
Had   met,    fairly   stunned    them.     An   instant    their 

vision 
Saw  nothing ;  their  senses  had  gone  with  the  glare 
Of  the  lightning  that  vanished  in  gloom. 

' '  Let  me  care 
For  you  tend'^rly  once,  as  I  can,"  he  appealed. 
As  lie  felt  her  form  tremble.    "  There  must  be  concerled 
In  the  cabin  some  helps  to  your  comfort." 

He  made 
His  way  round  in  the  darkness,  now  deep,  till  he  laid 
Eager  hold  on  a  rickety  chair,  which  he  brought 
For  her  use  ;  and,  on  searching  still  further,  he  caught 
By  the  gleam  of  the  lightning  a  glimpse  of  a  cot 
And  a  campstool. 


GERALBINE. 


107 


"  I  own  that  these  quarters  are  not 
What  they  might  be  for  cheerfulness,"  gayly  he  said  ; 
"But  there  could  be  worse  fortune  than  this  that  has 

led 
Us  to  shelter  so  dismal.     Imagine  us  yet 
In  the  tempest  out  yonder !     We  never  should  get 
To  the  land  with  our  lives." 

"  'Twould  have  seemed  little  matter 
To  me  only  yesterday.     Life  did  not  flatter 
Me  much  with  its  promise,  although  I  confessed 
To  a  horror  of  death.     There  was  nought  I  possessed 
Of  a  value  worth  counting.    God's  beggars  have  riches 
Far  greater  than  mine.     I  had  torn  from  their  niches 
My  idols  of  cost ;  and  my  hcT^rt's  wide  Valhalla 
Was  empty." 

"And  now?" 

"  You  have  seen  the  white  calla 
Unfold  all  its  treasure  of  purity  soon 
As  the  morning  blooms  full  in  the  sweetness  of  noon  ? 
Even  so  has  my  love  for  you  burst  into  bloom 
From  its  bud  in  the  dark.     It  would  seem  as  if  gloom 
Must  forever  be  brightened,  indeed,  with  its  light ; 
And  to-day  I  have  riches  untold  hi  the  sight 
Of  this  love  that  is  mine." 

She  was  speaking  in  low, 
Suppressed  accents,  that  took  indescribable  glow 
From  the  feeling  that  moved  her.    He  knelt  by  her  side, 
As  a  reed  in  the  breath  of  her  speech. 


108 


GERALDHiE. 


"  You  deuied 
Me  the  right  any  longer,"  he  answered,  "  to  plead 
For  the  sweet  privilege  of  supplying  your  need 
To  the  uttermost.     All  that  I  am  is  your  own 
To  do  with  as  you  may.     Will  you  give  me  a  stone 
Of  denial  again,  when  I  ask  for  the  bread 
Of  possession  complete?  " 

She  but  rested  her  head 
On  his  shoulder  in  silence,  her  heart  throbbing  fast 
As  did  his.     In  possession  too  perfect  to  last 
He  was  hers,  she  was  his,  for  the  moment.     He  held 
Her  supremely  his  own  ;  and  his  passion  compelled 
Her  glad  kisses  in  answer  to  his. 

' '  But  a  taste 
Of  the  honey  of  Canaan  is  mine  in  the  waste 
Of  my  wilderness  barren,"  she  whispered  at  length. 
*'It  has  marvellous  sweetness." 

"  And  marvellous  strength 
Has  this  love  that  I  give  you,"  he  said  in  return. 
*'  I  believed  I  had  nothing  of  passion  to  learn  "  — 


"  As  did  I ;  and  the  ratio  of  this  that  I  feel 
Fairly  frightens  me.     Many  a  wife  would  conceal 
Such  a  fervor  of  love  from  her  husband  ;  and  I 
Can  be  never  your  wife,  Heaven  pity  me  !  " 

"Why? 
What  shall  keep  us  apart?   -You  were  made  for  my 
holding," 


••a 


GERALDINE. 


109 


lie  passionate  said,  almost  fiercely  infokliug 

Iler  close  in  bis  arms.     "  You  are  mine  by  the  claim 

Of  my  love,  and  your  ample  return.     You  became 

Wholly  mine  when  confession  you  made  of  that  love  ; 

And  I  hold  you  by  right  and  by  title  above 

All  beside." 

"  It  is  madness  to  let  you  forget 
Your  own  ties  in  this  manner.     Before  we  had  met, 
You  no  longer  belonged  to  yourself.     Could  I  keep 
AVhat  another  might  prove  to  be  hers,  and  so  creep 
By  and  by  between  me  and  my  claim?  " 

Not  a  word 
Of  reply  for  a  little  escape*!  him.     She  heard 
In  the  stillness  between  the  loud  thunder  his  heart 
Beating  heavy  and  quick,  saw  the  color  depart 
From  his  face  as  the  lightning  shone  on  it,  and  felt 
That  he  suffered.     He  rose  to  his  feet  where  he  knelt, 
But  her  tenderly  from  him,  and  strode  to  the  door 
As  if  panting  for  air.     It  was  minutes  before 
He  made  answer  in  fact ;  tnen  his  voice  sounded  broken 
And  tremulous. 

' '  Yes  :  I  am  glad  you  have  spoken 
Of  what  I  should  first  have  remembered.     I  thank 
You  for  doing  it,  since  I  so  wickedly  drank 
Of  the  cup  of  forgetfulness.     Ever  its  flow 
Must  entice  me,  I  fear. 


•'  A  few  moments  ago. 


»i 


Coming  to  her  again,  "  my  dear  friend,  I  was  mad 


no 


GERALDINE. 


As  the  veriest  lunatic.     Passion  has  had 
Its  free  run  for  a  season.     It  may  not  outlive  me  : 
It  may,  to  my  sorrow.     No  matter.     Forgive  me 
For  offering  what  was  not  mine  to  deliver. 
Forget,  if  you  can,  what  was  said — on  the  river 
And  here.     Let  us  be  the  same  friends  we  have  been 
In  these  days  of  delight,  if  we  can.     Let  me  win 
My  good  comrade  once  more." 

And  she  gave  him  her  hand 
With  a  clasp  that  was  warm. 

"  You  are  noble  and  grand 
As  no  other  man  living  could  be,"  she  declared.  ' 
"  In  your  madness,  if  madness  it  were,  I  have  shared : 
Let  me  share  in  your  penitence,  too,  Mr.  Trent ; 
Though  I  doubt  if  indeed  I  do  truly  repent. 
It  was  such  a  sweet  madness  !  it  thrilled  heart  and  brain 
With  such  gladness  of  being  !  it  stilled  all  the  vain 
And  unsatisfied  longings  that  trouble  my  breast. 
With  such  tremulant  stilling  to  such  a  glad  rest ! 
I  shall  love  you  —  I  must  —  though  I  never  may  tell  j^ou 
Again  of  my  love  ;  and  could  loving  compel  you 
To  leave  all  the  world,  and  to  cleave  unto  me, 
I  should  never  indulge  the  compulsion,  but  flee 
From  your  presence  at  once.     For  again  let  me  say, 
I  must  journey  through  Edom  alone.     If  the  way 
Be  so  rough  that  I  stumble  and  fall,  you  may  pray 
In  the  strength  of  your  faith  for  my  faltering  feet, 
That  they  carry  me  soon  to  some  rest  that  is  sweet ; 


GEUALDINE. 


Ill 


Aud  if  prayer  can  avail  one  whose  faith,  in  eclipse 
By  iicr  doubt,  is  lost  sight  of,  I'm  certain  your  lips 
Could  efTiciency  lend  it  for  me.     But  alas 
For  the  wilderness  lonesome  through  which  I  must  pass 
From  this  day  to  the  end  !  " 

In  the  darkness  he  knew 
There  were  tears  on  her  face,  and  he  tenderly  drew 
Her  again  to  his  arms. 

"I  can  be  to  yon  much, 
Though  I  may  not  be  all,"  he  responded.     "And  such 
As  I  freely  can  give  you  nmst  freely  accept. 
Let  what  loving  has  sown,  in  the  future  be  reaped 
In  our  friendship.     To  walk  by  your  side  as  j^our  friend 
Now  and  then,  you  must  grant  me  from  this  till  the 
end." 


"Between  you  and  my  life,"  she  made  answer,  "  there 

lies 
A  great  gulf  that  is  deep  as  the  ocean  :  our  cries 
For  companionship  cross  it.     You  hold  me,  as  here, 
In  the  arms  of  your  love,  witli  j'our  heart  beating  near ; 
But  we  stand  far  apart  on  the  opposite  steeps. 
And  between  us  there  bide  the  impassable  deeps. 
Do  not  ask  me  my  riddle  to  read.     Let  me  hide 
1  .     'Y  from  you  now  and  forever." 

She  sighed, 
And  he  answered  her  but  with  caresses,  then  rose. 
And  in  silence  peered  out  in  the  dark. 


112 


GERALBINE. 


I 


"  I  suppose 
We  must  manage  to  stay  here  till  morning.     The  rage 
Of  the  storm  is  subsiding  ;  but  I  can't  engage 
To  return  you  in  safety  before.     "NYe  are  far 
From  the  Bay,   and  there's  not  the  fir?t  gleam  of  a 

star 
Through  the  gloom.     'T would  be  folly  to  think  of  my 

finding 
Our  way  up  these  channels  so  many  and  winding 
In  darkness  like  this.     I  can  make  you  a  bed 
On  the  cot  yonder  somehow,  it  may  be,"  he  said 
By  and  by. 

Then  he  busied  himself  at  his  task, 
With  some  show  of  success. 

'"Tisn't  all  I  could  ask 
For  your  comfort,"  he  briefly  explained,  as  he  made 
His  way  cautiously  back  to  her  side.     ' '  With  the  aid 
Of  a  blanket  or  two,  and  a  pillow,  I  think 
You  could  rest  very  well.     As  it  is,  do  not  shrink 
From  accepting  the  best  present  poverty  yields  ;' 
And  be  certain  my  tenderness  watches,  and  shields 
You  from  harm." 

*'  I  am  weary,"  she  answered,  "  and  glad 
Of  whatever  you  offer.     No  fair  lady  had 
Truer  knight  for  her  service  in  chivalry's  time 
Than  will  guard  me,  I  know.     You  should  weave  into 

rhyme 
So  romantic  an  episode  truly  as  this  is." 


GERALDINE. 


113 


lie  pointed  her  words  with  some  lingering  kisses 
By  way  of  good-night,  and  then  led  her  across 
To  the  couch. 

"  No  :  the  world  must  submit  to  the  loss 
Of  our  living  romance  altogether.     I  hold 
It  a  thing  far  too  sacred  for  pen  to  unfold, 
Even  under  the  veiling  of  fiction.     And  then 
You  remember  my  thought,  — that  the  poets  don't  pen 
Their  experience  often." 

*'  Oh,  yes  !  I  remember. 
You  make  of  each  poet  a  perfect  dissembler, 
Pretending  to  what  is  unfelt,  and  denying 
The  feeling  he  has  any  voice,  only  sighing 
In  secret  perhaps.     If  I  state  it  too  strong, 
Pray  forgive  me." 

He  laughed. 

' '  But  I  own  that  the  song 
May  be  real  to  him  while  he  sings,  though  in  fact 
It  is  fiction  the  veriest.     Singers  have  lacked 
L^ss  in  feeling,  indeed,  than  in  fancy.     Poetical 
Genius  the  finest,  I  fear,  is  heretical 
Most  with  regard  to  the  truth,  rather  shaping 
What  might  be  than  telling  what  is  ;  sooner  draping 
A  dream  in  the  garments  of  beauty,  and  making 
Men  think  it  of  bone  and  of  muscle,  than  taking 
A  skeleton  out  of  the  past,  and  with  aching 
Pemembrance  so  robing  it  round  as  to  show 
What  perfection  of  form  fell  to  dust  long  ago." 


114 


GEBALBINE. 


\\ 


*'  But  I  don't  half  believe  in  your  theory,  though 

You  do  talk  so  convincingly  sometimes  about  it. 

One  day,  I  am  certain,  you'll  even  half  doubt  it 

Yourself.     For  you  poets  are  men  of  rare  feeling : 

You  must  be,  indeed  ;  and  to  think  of  concealing 

It  always  is  mockery.     Even  the  claim 

That  your  feeling  flows  out  in  some  fiction  the  same 

As  in  positive  sorrow  I  cannot  believe. 

Men  may  weep  at  some  fancy  of  grief ;  but  they  grieve 

To  the  uttermost  only  when  sorrow  cuts  deep 

To  the  quick  of  their  souls.     And  we  know,  when  we 

weep 
At  their  words,  what  the  hurt  is.     The  mass  of  us  feel 
The  same  hurt,  it  may  be,  but  can  never  reveal 
Its  kedn  torment  because  we  are  dumb.    Why  is  speech 
So  denied  to  the  many  ?     Why  is  it  that  each 
Of  us  has  not  the  gift  of  expression  ?     And  why 
Must  some  hearts  go  through  life  with  a  hungering  cry 
For  the  good  that  they  miss,  and  unable  to  tell 
What  their  need  is,  their  hunger,  their  thirst?    Is  it  well 
For  the  world  that  so  many  are  mutes?  " 

"I'm  unable 
To  answer,  my  friend,"  he  replied.     "  What  a  Babel 
Indeed  it  would  be,  thougli,  if  all  were  endowed 
With  a  gift  as  of  tongues,  and  at  once  tha  whole  crowd 
Should  begin  to  communicate  !     Angels  defend  us 
From  fate  so  disturbing  !     May  kind  fortune  send  us 
A  quieter  morrow  to  die  in ! 


GERALDJNE. 


115 


"Complaint, — 
Speaking  soberly  now,  as  in  fear  of  some  saint 
Of  the  silent  departed,  —  complaint  might  be  all 
That  from  lips  of  the  many  incessant  would  fall, 
Were  they  dowered  with  speech.      They  might  never 

give  voice 
To  their  hope  or  their  faith ;  they  might  never  rejoice 
In  some  paian  of  gladness  to  lift  the  heart  up  ; 
They  might  never  in  song  press  a  cheer-giving  cup 
To  the  lips  of  those  fainting  and  worn  in  the  strife. 
And  the  best  of  all  song  is  the  song  that  is  life 
To  the  dying,  it  may  be,  and  strength  to  the  weak, 
And  sure  faith  to  the  helpless,  who  only  can  seek 
For  some  help  far  beyond  them." 

' '  Yet  song  that  is  mellow 
"With  tenderest  feeling,  that  shows  us  a  fellow- 
Ileart  throbbing  with  ours  in  our  need  or  our  pain. 
Has  its  mission,  though  born  of  complaint  that  was  vain 
And  unworthy.     Our  sufferings  syllables  take 
Of  the  words  of  the  poets,  and  solace  their  ache 
With  a  half-revelation  in  language  our  own 
As  we  make  it  so  only.     No  soul  sings  alone 
In  its  loneliness  truly  ;  no  other  s'^ul  sighs  , 
In  its  bitter  regret,  without  hushing  the  cries 
Of  some  near  one  unseen,  but  who  pauses  to  hear, 
And  in  silence  is  comforted." 

"  Doubtful,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Lee.     It's  a  pretty  conceit ;  but  I  fear 


116 


GERALDINE. 


It  is  rather  too  fanciful.     Song  may  uplift ; 
But  complaint  is  tlepreasing.     The  true  singing  gift 
Should  be  his  who  will  sing  in  the  world  but  to  gladden  it 
Dirges,  indeed,  may  be  sweet ;  but  they  sadden  it. 
All  I  could  ask  for  my  JMuse  would  be  this : 
That  it  cheerily  sing  till  some  being  shall  miss. 
When  it  ceases,  a  hope  and  a  help,  and  shall  long 
For  the  singer's  return,  his  renewal  of  song." 

*'  But  the  sweetest  of  singing  has  ever  a  sigh  in  it ; 
Loving  seems  always  to  linger  and  die  in  it ;         ; 
All  that  we  catch  in  the  syllables  clearest 
Is  just  a  remembrance  of  what  was  the  dearest 
And  nearest  to  some  heart  in  days  long  departed." 


h 


*'  You've  listened,  no  doubt,  till  the  foolish  tears  started, 

"When  he  who  so  tenderly  sang  was  but  grieving 

In  fancy  alone."  ^ 

"  Is  there,  then,  no  believing 
The  word  of  a  poet?  " 

"Well,  now,  I  suppose 
If  the  word  be  spelled  out  in  good  truth-telling  prose, 
You  may  take  it,"  he  answered  with  laugh  that  was 

light. 
"  But  I  beg  of  you  stop  your  conundrums.    Good-night ! 
Get  such  rest  as  you  can." 

' '  Will  you  give  me  a  word 
For  my  dreams  that  is  sweetest  the  air  ever  stirred  ? 


CETiALDIXE, 


117 


Siiy  you  lovo  me,  and  say  it  in  prose,  that  I  never 
May  doubt  it." 

"  I  love  you,  shall  love  you  forever," 
lie  said  with  low  emphasis. 

"  Thanks  !  I  could  rest 
Anyw   ■     .  "uyhow,  by  such  benison  blest." 


io-ht ! 


Then  in  silence  he  sat  till  the  morning,  his  mind 
All  a  tumult  of  troubled  emotion.     Be  blind 
To  his  wretched  position  no  longer  could  he. 
There  was  Geraldine  Hope  :  here  was  Isabel  Lee. 
lie  was  far  from  them  both  as  the  night  from  the  day. 
He  was  far  from  his  faith  as  forever  are  they 
"Who  forever  are  faiti^less.     And  so  self-accusing, 
Unspared  of  his  conscience,  and  grimly  refusing 
To  smother  the  stings  that  it  gave,  looking  out 
On  his  future  <vith  only  a  harrowing  doubt 
Of  what  might  be  in  store,  he  awaited  the  breaking 
Of  day. 

Mrs.  Lee  wa3  asleep  ;  and  forsaking 
The  cabin  when  on  the  horizon  a  priest 
Of  the  dawn  began  incense  to  burn  in  the  east, 
He  walked  down  to  the  water  his  boat  to  prepare 
For  departure.     No  traces  remained  anywhere 
Of  their  landing.     Till  sunrise  had  silvered  the  dawn 
He  made  search  without  finding:  the  frail  craft  was 
gone. 


118 


GEBALDINE. 


V 


*lll 


nil !  .    1 

'',1 '      :  . 


1* 


XIII. 

When  the  rest  of  the  party  returned  to  the  Bay, 
Hurried  on  by  the  tempest  that  threatened  them,  they 
"Were  surprised  and  alarmed  to  discover  that  two 
Of  their  number  were  missing.     But  nought  could  they 

do 
To  determine  what  fate  Lad  befallen  the  twain. 
To  go  out  and  make  search  in  the  storm  would  be  vain 
As  unsafe. 

"  They  have  landed,  and  there  must  remain 
In  such  shelter  as  '^hances,  wherever  it  be, 
Until  morning,"  the  major  remarked.     "Mrs.  Lee 
"Will  regard  it  romantic.     It  may  be  that  Trent 
"Will  consider  the  storm  as  an  episode  sent 
For  his  special  advantage.     He  likes  the  dramatic 
In  life,  and  was  always  a  trifle  erratic 
In  love.     He  may  die  a  true  Romeo  yet 
In  some  desperate  strait  for  the  last  Juliet 
Of  his  fancy." 

And  so  Major  Mellen,  satirical, 
Spoke  of  his  friend. 

*'  If  love  shows  us  a  miracle 
Ever,"  he  went  on  to  say,  *'  it  is  when 


GEBALDINE. 


119 


It  rcnfiws  itself  over  nnd  over  again 
In  the  breast  of  p-  poet.     So  often  it  rises 
Afresli  from  t'^e  dead,  it  no  longer  surprises 
AVith  new  revelations  of  being.     Besides, 
It  so  largely  increases  itself,  and  di  ddes 
Of  its  multiplied  measure  so  freely,  it  shows 
Arithmetical  qualities  few  would  suppose 
Could  belong  to  a  thing  sentimental." 

The  sneer 
Of  the  cynic  half  hid,  half  revealed  itself  here 
In  his  words. 

"  Percy  Trent  is  in  love  with  my  cousin 
As  madly  as  ever  he's  been  with  a  dozen 
Before  ;  but  he  hasn't  discovered  the  fact 
Altogether,  I  think.     When  he  does,  he  will  act 
Very  much  as  if  he  had  committed  the  sin 
That  has  never  forgiveness.     He  never  would  win 
Fo"  the  sake  of  the  winning :  he  never  would  share 
Of  his  love  where  he  ought  not,  if  caution  or  care 
Could  prevent  it.    His  creed  is  the  best ;  but  the  fact  is. 
His  principle  doesn't  quite  wed  with  his  practice. 
Don't  blame  him  !     I  can't.     Every  man  for  his  creed 
Is  responsible.     Let  that  be  right,  let  it  read 
Parallel  with  the  preaching  that  seems  to  be  best ; 
And  society  answers  for  him  for  the  rest. 
What  he  is,  what  he  does,  is  small  matter,  so  long 
As  the  thing  he  believes  is  not  glaringly  wrong. 
Then  the  heart  is  indeed  a  free  agent :  the  head 


I 

li     I 
i  t     I 


120 


GERALBINE. 


11 


i 


Cannot  hold  it  in  bumble  subjection.     If  led 
Into  ways  that  are  wicked,  no  part  of  the  blame 
Should  be  thrust  upon  him  who  gives  only  his  name 
To  the  agent,  and  does  not  control  it.     Whose  love 
Is  w'thin  his  discretion  ?     AVhose  will  is  above 
His  affection,  directing  and  guiding  it?    Better 
That  hearts  should  love  often  than  always  be  debtor 
To  i^rudence  for  perfect  restraint." 

So  he  ran 
To  his  flippant,  irreverent  speech,  that  began 
To  be  reckless  at  times. 

The  next  morning  shone  clear 
As  che  m  minings  that  dawn  in  the  blush  of  the  year. 
Major  Mellen,  denying  his  habit,  forsook 
The  seduction  of  sleep.     Rising  early,  he  took 
His  way  down  to  the  wharf,  thinking  haply  to  meet 
The  belated  pair  on  their  return,  and  to  greet 
Them  with  playful  reproach.  But  his  keen  vision  scanned 
All  the  channels  in  vain,  to  the  dim-lying  land 
On  the  Canada  side,  far  away  down  the  stream. 
The  wide  waters  were  tinted  with  morn's  rosy  gleam, 
And  unflecked  by  a  sail.     The  white  flash  of  an  oar 
In  the  cun  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Long  before 
His  late  breakfast,  the  major  was  anxious,  but  laughed 
At  the  fears  of  the  rest. 

' '  He  can  manage  his  craft 
Like  a  riverman  born,"  so  the  major  contended. 


GERALBINE. 


121 


"  If  out  in  it  when  the  quick  tempest  descended, 

Ile'd  safely  enough  make  the  shore.     He's  expert 

With  the  rod  and  tlie  line.    They  have  come  to  no  hurt, 

But  are  breaking  their  fast  in  poetical  leisure, 

Perfecting  a  bass  in  a  broil.     There's  a  pleasure 

For  poets  in  cooking  the  fruit  of  their  lines. 

As  in  eating  it,  under  the  odorous  pines 

Of  a  solitude  wild.     Trent  would  hardly  desire 

To  be  known  as  a  monk  ;  but  a  very  good  frier 

He  is,  I  am  certain — of  fish.     They  will  fare 

"Well  enough  till  we  see  them  again  as  a  pair 

Of  meek  truants  returning  to  school." 

Yet  he  made 
Sudden  haste  to  secure  the  small  yacht,  nor  delayed 
To  set  out  on  a  mission  of  quest,  when  at  noon 
The  twain  missing  were  still  unreported.     As  soon 
As  the  search  had  been  fairly  begun,  he  confessed 
To  himself  an  untimely  delay,  and,  impressed 
With  a  fear  undefined,  he  kept  watch  as  they  sailed. 
Half  in  hope,  when  they  came  near  the  shore,  to  be 

hailed 
By  the  ones  whom  they  sought.      Every  island  they 

rounded. 
Each  headland  they  scanned,  until  hope  was  confounded 
AVith  keen  apprehension  in  all.     Not  a  trace  ' 

Of  the  boat  or  its  burden  appeared.     The  broad  space 
Of  the  river  below  the  last  islands  was  crossed 
And  recrossed  yet  again,  to  make  sure  that  the  lost 


<;■ ; 


i     i 


■; 


122 


GERALBINE. 


Were  not  Lintxid  of  there  in  some  manner ;  and  then 
They  went  farther  above.     As  they  rounded  again 
A  small  island  that  could  not  a  shelter  have  given, 
The  major  caught  sight  of  a  skiff  that  had  driven 
Itself  on  the  rocks. 

"  It  is  Trent's  !  *'  he  declared, 
With  excitement  that  each  of  the  company  shared 
As  they  neared  it.     ' '  And  stove  to  a  wreck  !    We  have 

lound 
All  we  shall  for  the  present.      They  must  have  been 

drowned 
By  upsetting  last  night  in  the  storm." 

And  he  grew 
Quickly  pale  as  he  spoke.     When  they  landed,  he  flew 
In  hot  haste  to  the  boat ;  but  it  offered  no  clew 
To  their  seeking,  beyond  its  bare  presence.     It  lay 
Without  oars,  bottom  up,  badly  broken. 

The  day 
Was  far  spent  when  they  gave  up  the  search,  and  re- 
turned, 
Bearing  with  them  the  cast-away  skiff,  having  learned 
Nothing  more.    No  one  doubted  the  common  conclusion 
Expressed.    They  had  perished.    To  hope  was  delusion. 
Their  bodies,  if  found  in  a  day  or  a  week, 
The  sad  truth  could  not  even  more  certainly  speak. 

» 

The  gay  world  at  the  Islands  made  proper  lament 
For  the  hour ;  and  a  thrill  of  true  sorrow  was  sent 


G  ERA  L  DINE. 


123 


Through  some  hearts  when  the  story  was  told.     Before 

night 
The  quick  lightning  had  spread  it  abroad  ;  and  its  flight 
AYas  a  message  of  sadness  to  many. 

One  read 
In  the  papers  next  day,  with  a  black-letter  head, 
Just  a  brief  paragraph  ;  and  it  soberly  said, 
"Mr.  Percival  Trent,  as  a  speaker  well  known. 
And  liis  friend  Mrs.  Isabel  Lee,  out  alone 
On  the  lliver  St.  Lawrence  last  night  in  a  squall, 
Were  capsized,  and  were  both  of  them  drowned." 

That  was  all. 


1 


124 


GERALDINE. 


■|i' 


XIV. 

The  one  reader  knelt  down  in  the  pitiless  gloom 
That  came  over  her  soul,  as  if  sudden  a  tomb 
Had  enveloped  her  there,  and  in  syllables  broken 
Besought  the  All-Father  to  send  her  some  token 
Of  love  and  compassion  to  show  her  that  still 
She  could  bow  to  his  power,  and  suffer  his  will, 
Thougli  it  crush  her,  because  for  the  best. 

It  was  long 
In  the  dark  of  her  doubt,  ere  she  caught  the  faint  song 
Of  her  faith  once  again,  like  a  bird  that  sings  low 
In  the  shadows,  l)efore  all  the  world  is  aglow 
With  another  glad  morning.     At  first  she  gave  up 
To  her  grief  unrestrained.     Of  the  tear-tasting  cup 
She  drank  deep,  till  its  bitterness  flooded  her  hope, 
Overwhelming  it.     Long  as  a  life  did  she  grope. 
So  it  seemed,  like  a  person  struck  blind  in  the  sun, 
Seeing  nothing. 

"  O  Lord  !  if  thy  will  must  be  done," 
She  could  only  beseech,  "  in  this  terrible  way. 
Take  me  also  to  thee  in  thy  mercy,  I  pray. 
I  am  wicked  and  weak  and  unworthy,  but  hear         ' 
To  my  pleading,  O  Lord,  I  implore !  '* 


GERALDINE. 


125 


If  the  ear 

Of  the  Infinite  ever  were  open  to  all 

"Who  in  sorrow's  unreason  thus  bitterly  call 

For  the  end,  or  if,  hearing,  he  answered  the  cry 

Because  merciful  only,  full  many  would  die 

With  their  life  in  the  bloom  of  its  purpose.     But  God 

Is  as  wise  as  paternal.     He  spares  not  the  rod 

Of  affliction,  however  he  loves  us.     Denying 

The  answer  we  seek,  he  is  touched  by  our  crying, 

And  gives,  in  the  time  of  his  wiser  replying, 

The  answer  to  profit  us  most. 

Yet  we  plead 
In  the  midst  of  our  want  for  some  possible  need 
We  believe  to  be  ours  ;  and  we  hold  empty  palms 
Up  to  God,  while  we  cry  for  particular  alms 
At  his   hand ;   and  the  boon  that  we  seek  might  be 

worse 
For  us  ever  than  poverty's  bitterest  curse. 
Very  blessed  indeed  are  the  poor,  when  they  crave 
What  would  hinder  and  hurt,  if  the  All-Father  gave 
Without  stint  to  their  asking.     More  blessed  are  those 
Who  in  praying  remember  the  All-Father  knows 
Of  their  need  even  better  than  they,  and  bestows 
With  a  wisdom  divine. 

It  was  pitiful,  first, 
To  see  Geraldine  clinging  to  all  that  was  worst 
In  her  grief.     He  was  dead,  her  one  lover,  —  as  true 
As  the  heart  that  so  bitterly  mourned  him,  she  knew. 


1 1  •* 

II  M  I  i 

11  '  i  i  > 

11  h 


126 


GEBALBINE. 


He  was  dead,  and  thus  ended  her  dream.      She  could 

never 
Again  feel  his  tender  caresses.     Forever, 
Till  death  gave  him  back,  so  her  sorrowing  said, 
She  must  hunger  for  love,  and  be  ever  unfed. 

By  and  by  —  she  could  hardly  have  told  if  a  week 
Or  a  day  had  been  passed  in  the  gloom —  she  could  seek 
For  disguising  of  comfort. 

Death  gives  us  some  things 
For  our  absolute  holding,  that  might  have  found  wings. 
And  been  wafted  beyond  us  ;  and  so  Death  is  I.ind. 
What  he  gives  us,  we  keep  ;  and  if  tears  make  us  blind 
To  the  gift,  and  we  see  but  a  grave  or  a  bier 
For  a  little,  we  come  to  a  vision  more  clear 
Later  on.     Then  we  know  that  this  token  of  Death 
Is  immortal ;  that  never  of  this  can  the  breath 
Of  regret  say  with  sighing,  "  O  change  of  the  years  !  '* 
That  we  never  shall  go  with  lamentings  and  tears 
On  a  wearisome  search  for  the  lost.     What  we  hide 
In  the  peace  of  the  grave  will  forever  abide 
In  its  promise  and  grace,  in  its  beauty  and  truth 
For  the  mortal  is  age.     Immortality's  youth 
Can  know  nothing  of  age,  or  of  change,  or  decay. 
It  has  never  a  morrow  of  fear.     Its  to-day 
Of  content  is  eternal. 

'  A  glimmer  of  light 

Came  to  Geraldine  out  of  the  dark  of  her  night. 


GEBALDINE. 


127 


lie  was  dead,  her  one  lover ;  but  thus  he  was  hers 
Beyond  shadow  of  doubthig.     No  dimness  that  blurs 
Any  distance  could  come  between  her  and  her  own. 
They  should  never  be  separate.     Weary  and  lone 
As  her  future  might  seem,  he  could  never  be  far 
From  her  life  and  her  love.     No  distrusting  could  mar 
Tlieir  companionship  now  evermore.     Not  a  hint 
Of  unfaith  could  be  heard  through  the  years.     AVithout 

stint 
She  might  give  of  her  heart  to  his  memory  fond, 
And  forever  be  glad  in  the  giving  beyond 
Any  possil.  ;  shade  of  regret.     Death  had  set 
The  great  seal  of  its  silence  on  li^.'S  that  were  yet 
Full  of  utterance  tender  and  true,  tiud  had  stilled 
"With   its   marvellous   hush   the   heart-tln-obbings   that 

thrilled. 
And  must  thrill  to  the  end,  for  herself. 

Could  it  be 
That  this  woman  of  women,  this  Isabel  Lee, 
With  her  heart  in  her  face,  and  her  love  in  her  hand. 
Might  have  won  him  away  with  her  witchery  bland  ? 
Could  it  be  that  some  passion  to  flame  might  have  fanned, 
That  he  never  had  dreamed  of,  asleep  in  his  breast? 
Could  it  be  that  his  love  for  herself,  in  the  test 
Of  some  crucible  heat  in  his  life,  might  have  burned 
Into  nothingness  ?    Might  he  some  lesson  have  learned, 
With  the  wisdom  of  love  making  wiser  his  heart. 
In  whi  \  previous  knowledge  had  never  a  part? 


V        11' 


128 


UEUALDINE. 


If  a  question  like  these  sought  reply  in  her  grief, 
In  its  possible  doubt  was  a  eertain  relief. 
If  the  sorrow  so  keen  had  been  sent  but  to  save 
From  a  sorrow  fur  keener,  the  hurt  that  it  gave 
''r^^as  the  touch  of  a  hand  hurting  only  to  shield  : 
In  the  pain  of  its  purpose  there  lingered  concealed 
A  sweet  comfort  to  gladden  and  bless. 

The  allies 
Of  our  happiness  come  to  us  oft  in  disguise, 
And  we  think  they  are  foes.    They  are  not  as  they  seem, 
And  we  welcome  them  not  to  their  mission  supreme  ; 
But  we  turn  in  despair  from  besetting  so  sore. 
And  would  flee,  if  the  way  were  but  open  before. 
Then  we  wait,  as  we  must,  in  the  struggles  that  keep 
All  our  being  in  terror,  and  out  of  the  deep 
Of  our  peril  we  call  for  the  succor  delayed. 
In  some  day  of  clear  vision  we  see  there  was  aid 
Where  we  knew  but  assailing  ;  and  then,  in  surprise, 
"With  our  gaze  lifted  up  to  the  peaceable  skies, 
"VVe  behold  from  our  peril  and  pain  a  release, 
And  are  glad  and  content  in  the  triumph  of  peace. 


'ii! 


GERALDINE. 


129 


XV. 


After  searching  in  vain  the  small  island  around, 
Where  no  hint  of  the  object  he  sought  could  be  found, 
Mr.  Trent  to  the  cabin  returned.     IVIrs.  Lee 
AVas  awaiting  him. 

"  Breakfast  for  you  and  for  me 
Must  be  late,"  he  remarked  but  half  anxiously.    "  We 
Are  two  castaways  now,  without  means  of  support. 
For  a  little  we  promise  to  be  but  the  sport 
Of  such  fortune  as  comes  to  us." 

Then  he  explained 
How  their  boat  had  been  drifted  away.     It  remained 
For  them  only  to  wait  for  some  vessel  in  sight 
Or  in  hail,  to  be  signalled,  or  told  of  their  plight, 
When  deliverance  quickly  would  come  ;  and  meanwhile 
They  must  comfort  themselves  in  the  comforting  smile 
Of  the  day,  that  gave  sunlight  to  follow  the  rain. 
As  the  morrow  will  always. 

He  smothered  the  pain 
At  his  heart,  and  made  merry  with  laugh  and  with  jest 
As  if  never  a  dread  of  the  future  oppressed 
Or  appalled  him.     His  passion  he  met  with  resistance 
Begotten  of  struggle  with  self ;  and  a  distance 


130 


GEHALDINE. 


Indefinito,  infinite,  widened  and  grew 

Like  a  desert  between  tliem.     Instinctive  slie  knew 

He  had  conquered  iiiniself  for  the  time.     No  regret 

For  the  past  or  tlie  present  his  scrutiny  met 

As  he  gazed  in  her  beautiful  face  ;  but  serene 

She  looked  out  on  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  green 

Of  the  islands,  and  moulded  her  mood  to  his  own. 

So  they  waited  and  watched  till  the  morning  had  grown 
Into  mid-day,  and  patience  with  waiting  had  flown. 
They  were  out  of  the  track  of  the  steamers  that  plied 
The  American  channel :  it  happened,  beside, 
That  no  boat  from  the  Canada  ports  came  along 
Until  noon.    When  it  came,  on  its  decks  were  a  throng 
Full  of  riotous  mirth,  on  a  pleasure-trip  bent 
To  the  village  some  miles  from  the  Bay  ;  but  they  lent 
Ready  ears  to  the  caii  for  assistance,  and  sent 
Speedy  means  of  relief. 

"  I  can  land  you  at  Berne," 
Said  the  captain,  who  hastened  their  story  to  learn, 
"When  they  stood  by  his  side.     *'You  can  dine  there, 

and  go 
To  the  Bay  when  you  please.     It's  a  moderate  row 
Of  three  hours,  and  the  boatmen  are  plenty." 

And  faint 
With  their  fasting,  no  longer  inclined  to  complaint, 
They  but  languidly  noted  the  beauties  abounding, 
The  merriment  over  the  still  water  sounding, 


\ 


GEIIALDINE. 


131 


And  heeded  ])iit  little  the  comment  they  caused. 
"When  at  length  the  slow  steamer  reiuetantly  paused 
At  a  rickety  wharf,  they  went  gladly  ashore, 
AVhile  the  vessel  backed  off,  and  its  proper  course  bore 
Farther  on. 

]\Ian  is  mortal.     There's  nothing  so  tells 
Of  mortality,  nothing  so  certain  repels 
The  romance  of  our  being,  the  essence  and  spirit 
Of  life,  as  the  hunger  that  feeds  it.     Men  fear  it, 
And  flee  it ;  and  yet  in  their  folly  they  nurse  it 
With  spices  and  tonics,  till  wretched  they  curse  it, 
And  die  of  dyspepsia  and  doctors.     The  greed 
Of  the  animal  dominates  over  the  need 
Of  the  heart  and  the  brain.     And  all  sentiment  waits 
Upon  hunger ;  is  happy  or  hurt  as  the  fates 
Of  the  stomach  decree.     The  day's  measure  is  dinner. 
Man  loves  like  a  saint ;  but  he  eats  like  a  sinner, 
Forgetting  his  love  till  his  appetite  flies. 
But  remembering  well  when  capacity  cries 
To  be  spared. 

At  a  quaint  little  inn  they  were  greeted 
By  fare  not  too  fine,  when  at  last  they  were  seated 
Before  it.     But  hunger  for  diet  the  meanest 
Gives  sauce  that  is  lively,  and  relish  the  keenest. 
They  ate  as  if  love  were  a  manna  untasted 
In  wilderness  ways  ;  as  if  hearts  had  but  hasted 
Their  good  to  forget,  or  the  lingering  pain 
Of  their  sorrowful  hurt  in  a  marvellous  gain. 


132 


GERALDINE. 


By  and  by  they  were  ready  to  leave.     kSweetly  slept 
The  wide  reaches  of  water,  unstirred,  as  they  stepped 
In  the  skiff  My.  Trent  had  obtained.     Like  a  mirror, 
The  river  reflected  the  sky,  that  seemed  nearer 
Than  ever  to  brood  o'er  the  world.     As  serene 
As  a  picture  of  peace  was  the  beautiful  scene. 
The  mid-afternoon  sun,  swinging  low  in  its  place. 
With  an  autumn-like  glory  suffused  all  the  space 
Bound  about  them.  The  far-away  hill-tops  were  crowned 
As  with  silver.     "  Be  still !  "  said  the  silence  profound 
In  suggestiveness  sweet  to  the  ear  of  the  soul : 
' '  For  the  troubled  in  heart  there  is  always  a  goal 
Of  content.     Mother  Nature,  with  tenderness  Mind 
To  the  faults  of  her  children,  and  ever  inclined 
To  give  gladness  for  sorrow,  invites  them  to  lie 
In  her  arms  while  the  tumults  of  being  surge  by. 
She  invites  them  in  quiet  and  comfort  to  reet, 
From  all  weariness  free,  on  her  pitying  breast ; 
And  Jehovah,  in  loving  and  tender  accord. 
Says,  '  Be  still !  and  discover  that  I  am  the  Lord.'  " 


There  are  times  to  be  silent,  —  sweet  seasons  of  calm, 
When  the  soul  seems  to  catch  the  soft  breath  of  a  psalm  ; 
When  the  Infinite  lifts  up  the  finite,  and  bears 
It  away  from  the  lowland  of  troubles  and  cares  ; 
When  we  rise  to  a  holier  being,  supernal  , 

In  good  and  in  blessing,  with  fields  ever  vernal, 
Where  bloom  the  dear  blossoms  of  beauty  that  hide 


GERALDINE. 


133 


From  our  happiness  lower,  where  vistas  are  wide 

As  a  world  for  enchanting  our  rapturous  gaze, 

And  we  look  from  our  height  with  delight  and  amaze. 


It  was  little  they  said  as  they  floated  away 

Through  the  silence  serene   on  their   course  to    the 

Bay. 
If  the  mood  of  the  scene  had  not  swayed  them,  the 

feeling 
Of  each  must  have  counselled  to  partial  concealing ; 
But  above  their  own  moods  was  the  mood  of  the  hour, 
And  it  silenced  their  speech  with  a  mystical  power 
That  they  could  not  divine.     Yet  for  Percival  Trent, 
Though  the  time  was  so  full  of  supernal  content. 
There  was  under  it  all,  half  unheeded,  the  ache 
Of  a  heart  that  has  made  the  one  bitter  mistake 
That  must  ruin  its  peace  evermore.     When  he  rested 
His  eyes  on  her  face,  he  would  gladly  have  breasted 
The  billows  of  fate  but  to  win  it  and  hold  it 
His  own,  to  look  into  it  ever,  to  fold  it 
Henceforth  in  his  loving  embrace.     But  a  boat's 
Length  between  them,  the  limitless  ocean  that  floats 
The  great  treasure  of  continents,  sundered  them  far 
By  its  pitiless  waves  ;  and  Hope  flung  not  a  spar 
For  his  seizing,  on  which  he  might  drift  till  he  held 
Her  to  him,  unresisting,  forever.     Impelled 
By  the  currents  swift  rushing  around  him,  he  knew 
He  must  call  to  her  through  the  wide  reach  his  "  adieu.'* 


1?>4 


GERALBINE. 


,i  ■ 


He  must  float  wheresoever  the  wild  waters  bore, 
Though  no  haven  he  find  on  a  rock-bordered  shore. 


i!.:ii 


The  short,  slow,  lazy  strokes  of  then'  boatman  were 

swift 
To  their  longing  desire.     'Twould  have  pleased  them 

to  drift 
In  this  quiet  so  tranquil  forever.     No  haste 
CI  the  world  was  upon  them.     To  linger,  and  taste 
Of  the  lotos-blooms  thus,  till  forgetfulness  came 
With  its  blessing  of  peace,  who  could  chide  them,  or 

blame  ? 
The   long   day  was  approaching  its  close   when  they 

neared 
The  hotel.     To  a  few  who  there  sat,  they  appeared 
As  if  raised  from  the  deep  ;  but  before  the  news  spread 
To  the  many,  that  these  were  alive  whom  as  dead 
They  were  mourning,  they  both  slipped  away  out  of 

sight. 


From  a  sleep  that  was  restful  and  soothing  that  night 
Into  which  he  had  sunk  upon  reaching  his  room, 
Percy  Trent  awoke  late,  and  arose  in  the  gloom 
To  look  out  on  the  river's  broad  bosom.     The  glimmer 
Of  moonlight,  just  gilding  the  trees  with  its  shimmer 
And  sheen,  gave  a  color  and  glow  to  the  dark ; 
And  when,  later,  the  moon  had  ascended  the  arc 
Till  her  beams  fell  ia  fulness,  as  soothing  and  tender 


GERALBINE. 


135 


As  sleep  was  the  glow  of  her  affluent  splendor. 
Yet  restless  and  troubled  did  Trent  Hnger  there 
By  the  casement  to  gaze  on  a  picture  more  fair 
Than  the  day,  to  be  bathed  in  a  glory  moie  rare 
Than  the  noon's,  but  with  bitterness  thrilling  his  heart. 
Then  he  sat  himself  down,  and  besought  the  shy  art 
Of  the  poet  to  soothe.     Thus  he  pencilled 


APART. 

Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sea, 
In  some  fah-  land  to  dream  of  thee 
To-night,  my  darhng,  would  I  be  I 

No  softer  breezes  there  might  blow; 
No  sweeter  music  there  might  flow; 
No  moonlight  there  more  tender  glow. 

My  dreams  might  find  no  rarer  bliss 
Than  here  they  yield  on  nights  like  this, 
Wherein  no  richness  do  they  miss. 

Throughout  the  glory  and  the  sheen, 
The  sunset  and  the  dawn  between. 
No  fairer  picture  might  be  seen. 

On  all  the  evening's  quiet  rare 

No  benediction,  as  of  prayer. 

More  sweet  and  calm  might  linger  there. 

But  waking,  when  the  night  was  done, 
To  dawn  of  day  and  rise  of  sun, 
To  Ufe  and  thought  again  begun. 


186 


GEBALBINE. 


Methinks  'twould  comfort  bring  to  me 
To  know  between  my  love  and  tliee 
Were  reaching  leagues  and  leagues  of  sea; 

To  feel  that  distance  real  and  wide 
Were  keeping  me  from  thy  dear  side, 
The  sunlight  of  thy  smiles  to  hide ; 

To  know  that  days  must  come  and  go, 
And  moons  must  wax  in  cycles  slow. 
Before  thy  presence  I  could  know. 

But  here  to-night  the  moonlight  glows, 
And  while  the  breeze  so  balmy  blows, 
I  seek  in  dreams  a  sweet  repose. 

It  comes  with  restf ulness  and  peace ; 
It  brings  my  soul  a  glad  release, 
"While  all  my  doubt  and  tumult  cease. 

Yet  waking,  with  the  dawn  of  day. 
My  heart  will  see  thee  near,  and  say 
"Good-morning,  love! "  and  bid  thee  stay. 

Then,  as  through  distance,  thy  reply 
Will  come,  like  breathings  of  a  sigh. 
Or  accents  of  a  sad  good-by. 


"  Good-morning,  love  I "  thou' It  answer  me; 
But  more  than  leagues  and  leagues  of  sea 
Will  separate  my  life  and  thee. 


GEBALDINE. 


137 


XVI. 


The  next  morning  he  copied  his  verses,  and  sent 
Them  to  Isabel  Lee  with  this  message :  — 

' '  I  meant 
To  take  leave  of  the  Islands  to-day  —  and  of  you : 
To  depart  from  your  presence  without  an  adieu 
Or  a  word  of  farewell  was  my  purpose.     I've  staid 
Far  too  long  as  it  is.     But  some  talk  will  be  made 
On  account  of  our  recent  sui-vival :  I'll  tarry 
A  day  or  two  longer,  and  help  you  to  parry 
The  gossiping  comment  I  helped  to  create. 
Thus  I  give  my  excuse  for  delay  to  the  fate 
That  would  force  me  away  from  your  side. 

"When  I  go, 
It  will  be  to  a  future  of  struggles.     I  know 
What  is  duty.     I  know  I  should  say  my  farewell 
To  this  month  of  delight  with  no  feeling  to  tell 
Of  my  treason  to  love  so  long  plighted.     Distrust 
Of  my  manhood  may  come  when  I  see,  as  I  must, 
To  what  pitiful  weakness  I  early  am  brought. 
I  may  wonder,  perhaps,  if  when  I  shall  have  fought 
The  hard  battle,  and  won,  this  poor  sham  of  a  life 
Will  be  worth  all  the  effort,  the  struggle,  and  strife. 


138 


GERALDINE. 


■        ; 


Yet  I  know  what  is  duty,  and,  knowing,  sliall  walk 
In  the  line  of  it  steady  and  brave,  though  it  mock 
Me  with  bitter  denial  of  strength.     For  we  grope 
To  the  altitudes  highest  when  being  and  hope 
Are  in  deepest  eclipse  by  some  fate  unforeseen : 
So  I  comfort  myself  with  the  shadows  between 
My  blind  path  and  the  sunlight  shut  out. 

"A  defender 
Of  right  should  not  wave  the  white  flag  of  surrender 
When  wrong  his  position  assails,  though  the  wrong 
Come  beguiling  to  peace  with  some  snatch  of  a  song 
That  is  pleasant  to  hear.    And  the  wrong  of  this  passion 
Of  mine,  that  has  come  in  such  innocent  fashion 
To  capture  and  hold  me  a  captive,  must  feel 
The  quick  arming  of  conscience  within  me,  the  leal 
And  unyielding  resistance  of  manhood,  to  meet 
And  make  combat  against  it.     I  know,  I  repeat. 
What  is  duty,  —  my  duty,  —  and,  knowing,  abide 
By  the  knowledge.     Henceforth  in  the  past  I  will  hide 
What  is  past ;  and  my  present  shall  be  —  what  it  can. 
For  the  future  —  well,  being  is  brief  ;  and  the  man 
Who  gets  through  it  the  soonest  in  manliest  way 
lias  the  happiest  ending. 

"  The  major  might  say 
Something  very  like  that,  to  be  sure  ;  but  his  quarrel 
With  life  than  my  own  is  more  ancient :  the  moral 
Of  which  rather  pertinent  fact  is,  that  he 
Should  be  reconciled  rather,  and  leave  now  to  me 


GEBALBINE. 


139 


The  most  bitter  complaints  about  beiug.     If  I 
Am  inclined  to  turn  cynic,  and  utterance  try 
That  is  doubtful  and  reckless,  remember  the  stroke 
That  is  stabbing  my  soul  to  its  quick.     If  I  spoke 
As  I  feel,  I  should  shock  you  with  bitterest  speech 
That  a  sane  man  could  utter.     But  lips  that  can  preach 
"Wise  philosophy  e'er  must  be  careful,  and  frame 
Only  language  discreet,  though  the  heart  be  aflame 
Just  below." 

To  which  message  she  speedily  gave 
A  complaining,  pathetic  response  :  — 

' '  You  would  save 
Me  the  pain  of  farewell.     Let  it  be  so  ;  and  when 
You  depart  on  the  morrow,  as  commoner  men 
Hold  my  hand  for  a  moment  in  theirs  while  they  speak 
Their  adieux,  yo^    ihall  clasp  it  as  if  in  a  week 
You  might  take  it  again  in  your  own.     And  return 
When  you  will,  soon  or  late,  —  be  it  soon  !  — you  shall 

learn 
How  my  heart  has  been  keeping  its  tenderest  things 
For  yonr  welcome ;   shall  find  with  what  gladness  it 

brings 
The  poor  offering  up  to  your  altar,  and  waits 
For  some  look  warm  with  loving  to  cheer  the  hard  fates, 
^\.nd  to  kindle  the  ashes  to  flame.     With  your  pledge 
To  remain  as  my  friend,  I  can  stand  on  the  edge 
Of  this  wilderness  where  I  am  walking,  and  seem 
To  catch  glimpses  across  to  the  land  of  my  dream  ; 


140 


GEEALDINE 


i  I' 


'  '1 


1^:' 


i 


Can  forget  for  a  time  with  what  Un-terness  all 
Who  are  shut  out  of  Canaan  must  hunger  and  call» 
Mid  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt,  for  good  that  they  miss. 
You  are  not  to  deny  me  your  friendship  ;  and  this, 
If  it  tenderer  be  than  the  many  could  give, 
If  it  nurture  itself  at  love's  fountain,  and  live 
Thus  a  life  that  is  warmer  than  others  may  see, 
Shall  be  beauty  and  brightness  and  blessing  to  me. 

"  Duty  takes  you  away  for  a  while,  so  we'll  phrase  it. 

And  duty  —  we're  given  to  foster  and  praise  it ; 

But  ugly  enough  it  can  be,  and  as  hateful 

As  sin.     There  is  nothing  in  life  quite  as  fateful, 

Or  so  I  believe.     I  am  sick  in  my  soul 

Of  its  bitter  exactions.     The  costliest  toll 

That  we  yield  on  the  high^^'ay  of  being  is  paid 

To  these,  whether  we  will  it  or  no.     We  are  laid 

Under  tribute,  indeed,  to  a  Caesar  who  claims 

All  we  have,  all  the  best  of  our  longing  and  aims  ; 

And  we  give  without  hope  of  appeal.     Do  not  wonder 

I  put  the  catie  plain  and  with  feeling  ;  for  under 

This  cruel  oppression  of  duty  I  cry 

In  a  poverty  wretched  for  riches  gone  by, 

And  no  answer. 

"  To-day  we  shall  meet  as  do  those 
In  whose  soberer  veins  never  surges  and  glows 
The  warm  current  of  passion  ;  shall  trifle  with  speech 
As  if  never  the  heart  underneath  could  beseech 


GEBALDINE. 


141 


For  a  clear  revelation  in  word,  as  if  lips 

Were  commissioned,  indeed,  to  put  thought  in  eclipse  ; 

Shall  be  careless,  untroubled,  and  gay  with  the  rest, 

Though  a  riotous  tumult  may  stir  either  breast 

To  pathetic,  unspoken  appeal.     So  we  play 

At  the  mirth  that  is  mockery  mad,  and  obey 

The  mad  will  of  the  world,  that  would  bid  us  conceal 

What  the  will  of  our  hearts  would  so  gladly  reveal. 

We  shall  meet  as  they  meet  who  have  little  to  gain 

In  the  meeting,  no  deep-stirring  pleasure  the  pain 

Of  their  yesterday's  parting  to  stifle  ;  no  burning 

Unrest  through  the  brief  separation  ;  no  yearning 

For  glance  of  an  eye,  or  for  touch  of  a  hand. 

Speaking  language  that  love  may  not  misunderstand. 

Let  it  be  so.     I'm  used  to  all  bitter  restraint 

Upon  gladness  and  warmth  that  can  make  the  heart  faint 

With  repression  and  hunger.     No  bitterest  trial 

Henceforth  can  be  harder  than  this  of  denial 

That  through  the  long  years  I  have  helplessly  known. 

I  should  say  that  my  heart  must  be  hardened  to  stone, 

If  it  were  not  that  now,  as  I  think  of  you  here, 

I  can  feel  its  quick  throbbings. 

' '  You  may  not  be  near 
In  the  flesh  :  in  the  spirit  you  cannot  go  far 
From  my  side,  though  you  go  the  world  over.     We  are 
As  apart  as  are  darkness  and  day,  though  we  walk 
Arm  in  arm  a  day's  journey.     So  distances  mock 
At  conditions,  and  laugh  at  desire.     So  the  flesh  is 


'!  I 


142 


GEIiALBINE. 


Divorced  from  the  spirit  it  feobly  enmeshes, 
And  twain  they  must  be  evermore." 

As  he  read 
Her  response,  to  his  feverish  longing  it  said 
More  than  syUables  strongest  could  utter.     It  throbbed 
With  the  pain  and  the  passion  behind  it  that  robbed 
Her  who  wrote  of  her  peace.     In  its  silence  it  spake, 
Even  more  than  its  speech,  of  the  wearying  ache 
Of  her  soul.     It  aroused  all  his  sympathies,  strong 
And  intense  as  his  love,  to  the  uttermost.     Wrong 
As  it  might  be  to  stay,  he  was  tempted  to  bide 
The  results  of  a  wrong  ver}'^  sweet  by  her  side. 
And  remain  ;  for  she  needed  him.     Hunger  like  hers 
Can  be  fed  by  one  bounty  alone.     It  occurs 
To  those  wealth-giving  hearts  only,  born  to  make  gift" 
Of  their  riches  unchecked,  to  go  out  from  their  thrift 
Into  want  such  as  this.     So  he  reasoned.     He  knew 
That  his  need  of  her,  born  but  with  yesterday,  grew 
Every  hour.     Could  he  smother  it,  crush  it,  and  kill  it? 
Is  hunger  a  thing  to  forget,  if  you  will  it? 
Will  want,  lean  and  wolfish,  grow  comelier  there 
If  you  sit  in  its  presence  and  fancy  it  fair? 

When"  they  met,  half  a  hundred  were  hearing  her  tell 
How   the   storm   came  upon  them.     She   pictured  it 

well,  "  ^ 

And  in  spirit  dramatic.     How  many  could  guess 
That  her  language,  so  fitting,  and  free  to  express 


GERALDINE. 


143 


The  alarm  of  the  moment,  the  peril  and  sti'css 

Of  the  time,  was  a  mantle  to  cover  the  feeling 

Far  deeper  ?  that  words  so  intense  were  concealing 

The  incident's  actual  color  and  glow? 

That  the   mood   of    that    night    never   mortal   might 

know 
Save  herself  and  the  man  whom  she  greeted  as  one 
Of  her  commonest  friends  when  he  joined  them  ? 

"Well  done, 
Good  and  faithful,"  the  major  declared  in  his  light, 
Flippant  way.     "  Thougli  you  gave  us  a  horrible  fright, 
We  forgive  you.     But  don't  undertake  the  heroic 
Again  with  this  cousin  of  mine.     She's  a  stoic, 
I  grant,  and  would  make  not  a  word  of  complaint 
To  be  cast  away  often,  if  only  some  saint 
Of  romance  would  invoke  with  his  kind  benediction 
Such  company  pleasant ;  but  harrowing  fiction 
So  very  romantic  too  pungently  savors 
Of  fact." 

"  We  will  spare  you  such  odious  flavors, 
I  think,  in  the  future,"  said  Trent.     "  Mrs.  Lee 
Is  as  patient  as  any  lost  Crusoe  would  see 
His  companion  in  trouble  ;  and  none  could  desire 
Better  company,  should  he  unwisely  aspire 
To  the  life  of  a  castaway.     One  such  experiment 
Answers,  however.     There's  not  enough  merriment 
In  it  to  make  us  demand  an  encore. 
We  are  satisfied  quite,  without  crying  for  more." 


144 


GERALDINE. 


!  i; 


i 


''  I  supposed  you  were  fond  of  positions  dramatic, 
And  might  not  object  to  one  slightly  aquatic,*' 
Said  Mellen,  satirical.     "  Poets  are  pardoned 
For  tastes  rather  perilous.     Fancies  have  hardened 
Their  sensitive  shrinking  from  facts.     The  romantic 
In  dreams  should  not  render  them  foolishly  frantic 
If  coming  to  active  reality.     Most 
Of  the  guild,  I  suspect,  would  incline  to  make  boast, 
Soon  or  late,  of  a  thrilling  and  strange  episode 
So  imcommon  as  yours,  in  an  epic  or  ode." 

"  Now  I  warn  you  to  spare  us  your  comments  derisive, 
For  once,"  Mrs.  Lee  with  a  manner  decisive 
Declared.     "  You  would  make  of  an  epic  or  ballad 
One  element  only  of  bitter-sweet  salad 
For  cynics  to  feed  on,  who'd  say  grace  with  sneers. 
And  would  smile  in  derision  at  sentiment's  tears. 
You  who  laugh  at  poetical  things  of  romance, 
And  so  boldly  charge  at  them  a-tilt  with  your  lance 
Ever  drawn,  are  so  many  unwise  Sancho  Panzas, 
Because  you  could  never  pen  passable  stanzas 
Y'^ourselves,  and  so  win  the  world's  pbudit  for  wages. 
The  prose  of  our  being  has  many  dull  pages  : 
The  poetry  of  it  is  none  too  profuse. 
And  each  incident  striking,  I  think,  has  its  use. 
What  this  recent  adventure  of  ours  may  have  meant, 
I  am  puzzled  to  tell ;  but  perhaps  Mr.  Trent 
Will  some  picture  find  in  it  to  grace,  by  and  by, 


GERALDINE. 


145 


The  one  poem  each  poet  ambitious  should  try 
To  embahn  himself  in."     And  she  laughed. 

*'  From  such  banter 
A  Pegasus  modest  would  flee  at  a  canter," 
He  parried.    "  Mine  dare  not  remain."    And  he  bowed, 
Self-possessed  and  amused,  to  the  gathering  crowd, 
And  betook  his  way  down  to  the  river,  his  heart 
Strangely  stirring  within  him.     The  marvellous  art 
Of  the  wor^an  he  loved,  in  so  meeting  with  grace 
Unconfused  the  demand  of  the  time  and  the  place, 
Made  him  wonder.     No  woman  beside,  he  believed, 
Could   have  faced   the  surprise  of  the  hour,  and  de- 
ceived 
All  who  saw  her  and  heard  her  so  soon  into  thinliing 
The  episode  fruitless  of  love.     "Without  shrinking, 
She  told  all  there  was  of  that  notable  night 
For  the  curious  ear ;  and  her  silence  was  quite 
Unsuspected  concerning  the  holier  things 
He  must  set  himself  quick  to  forget ;  for  the  stings 
Of  his  conscience  were  cutting  and  keen.    The  begin- 


nmg 


Of  passion  despotic  was  bitter  as  sinning 
When  sin  has  been  drunk  to  the  dregs.     Now  for  him 
There  was  only  a  fate  full  of  wretchedness  grim, 
And  to-morrow  must  usher  it  in.     He  would  start 
On  the  early  boat,  leaving  at  five,  and  depart 
Without  word  of  adieu.     And  this  calm  afternoon 
He  would  seek  for  his  spirit  some  balm-laden  boon 


146 


GERALBINE. 


In  the  quiet  of  channels  none  other  might  find, 
Wherein  beauty  and  redolent  odor  combined, 
And  where  dreaming,  aglow  like  the  blush  of  a  rose, 
Should  beguile  the  unrest  of  his  soul  to  repose. 


GEj^ALDINE. 


147 


XVII. 


The  pale  gold  of  the  west  into  crimson  had  burned, 

And  then  faded  to  purple,  before  he  returned. 

He  had  done  more  than  dream  in  the  hours  intervening  ; 

Had  pondered  half  wisely  and  well  on  the  meaning 

Of  passion  so  futile,  so  bitter,  so  rife 

With  the  seeds  of  all  bitterness,  meeting  his  life 

Where  its  path  appeared  gladdest ;  had  wondered  if  so 

Into  every  existence  some  mad  currents  flow. 

Making  turbulence  where  should  be  placidest  peace  ; 

Had  questioned  if- ever  this  tumult  would  cease 

That  now  troubled  his  soul ;  and  had   reasoned   that 

being 
Is  only  a  cruel  and  blind  unforeseeing 
Of  problems  we  never  may  find  to  be  soluble. 
Out  with  a  friend,  and  inclined  to  be  voluble, 
Trent  would  have  talked  in  the  dubious  tones 
Of  a  man  who  has  battled  with  fate,  and  who  owns 
To  his  utter  defeat,  who  is  idly  indignant 
With  life  and  its  lessons. 

The  beauties  benignant 
Amid  which  he  rowed  could  not  suddenly  quiet 
The  feverish  pulse  that  so  boldly  ran  riot 


I 


148 


GEBALDINE. 


i 
?  PI  i 


M 


Within  him  ;  no  balmiest  opiate  breezes 

Could  bear  him  at  once  the  glad  blessing  that  eases 

Tormenting  thus  born  of  some  lingering  bane. 

Yet  at  evening  he  found  himself  back,  with  the  pain 

At  his  heart  rather  stupefied  ;  found  himself  ready 

To  meet  a  gay  welcome  with  nerves  that  were  steady, 

And  voice  that  could  syllable  badinage  gay 

As  the  gayest,  nor  once  by  a  tremor  betray 

Any  deep  hidden  feeling. 

That  night,  as  the  few 
Whom  he  daily  had  met,  and  thus  pleasantly  knew 
In  such  casual  way,  were  about  to  take  leave 
Of  each  other,  he  mentioned  his  going. 

"  I  grieve 
To  announce  that  good-night  must  be  also  good-by 
In  my  own  case,"  he  said,  "  though  I  leave  with  a  sigh 
Of  regret  that  the  summer  so  nearly  is  spent." 

"  And  you  go  in  the  morning?    I  think,  Mr.  Trent, 
You  should  kindly  have  told  us  your  purpose,  that  we 
Might  prepare  for  the  parting,"  said  Isabel  Lee 
With  surprise  well  affected,  her  manner  as  free 
From  all  touch  of  restraint,  and  as  simply  well  bred, 
As  if  never  a  tenderer  word  had  been  said 
Between  this  man  and  her.     "  We  shall  see  you  again 
Before  winter?  "  she  asked ;  and  as  commoner  men 
Took  the  hand  she  extended,  politely  he  took  it 
In  formal  farewell,  and  as  lightly  forsook  it, 


GERALD  IN  E. 


149 


Determined  to  show  that  he  also  could  cover 
All  signs  that  might  hint  of  his  being  a  lover. 

"  Perhaps.     I  have  promised  a  night  in  November 

At  L ,  and  may  call  at  that  time.     I  remember 

My  friends  when  I  can  "  as  if  most  to  forget 
"Were  his  custom  exacting. 

Some  words  of  regret 
From  the  others  were  spoken  in  courteous  phrase. 


>> 


*'  I  may  meet  you  in  Rivermet  one  of  these  days,' 
Said  the  major,  with  manner  as  easy  and  hearty 
As  if  the  brief  sentence  were  not  made  a  party 
To  eager  suspicion,  and  wish  to  detect 
Through  the  words,  or  their  carefully  noted  effect. 
Any  reason  for  Trent's  sudden  going. 

Unshaken 
And  cool  as  the  major  himself,  Trent  had  taken 
His  leave  of  them  all  in  a  moment,  and  stood 
On  the  ample  veranda  alone. 

"Very  good 
As  a  piece  of  lay  acting,  that  was,  I  admit ; 
But  there's  something  not  hinted,  I'm  sure,  under  it,*' 
Major  Mellen  remarked  by  and  by  to  the  major, 
There  being  no  other  man  near ;   "  and  I'll  wager 
A  box  of  Havanas  that  Bell  has  been  flirting 
With  Trent  till  he  flees  her  with  wound  that  is  hurting 
Him  hard.     She  can  stab  with  most  delicate  art. 


r 


II 


i! 


150 


GERALDINK 


C^an  it  be  that  the  girl  ever  had  any  heart  ? 

AVhat  a  marvellous  actress  she'd  make  !    She  had  known 

Of  his  plan  for  departure,  of  course,  but  has  shown 

An  indifferent  ignorance  mighty  well  feigned  ; 

And  there's  reason,  I'm  certain.    The  man  had  remained 

Here  a  fortnight  beyond  his  original  date : 

He'd  have  tarried  a  full  fortnight  longer,  if  fate 

Had  not  shown  him  his  danger.      He'll  shun  Rivermet 

And  Miss  Geraldine  Hope  till  this  fair  Juliet 

Be  forgotten.     And  somehow  you  can't  soon  forget 

Such  a  woman,"  he  added,  with  grimace  that  spoke 

Of  unpleasant  remembrance  his  language  awoke, 

"  It  is  well  that  I  quietly  published  my  going," 

Thought  Trent,  as  he  looked  on  the  river  deep  flowing 

Before  him,  the  night-breeze  but  tenderly  kissing  it. 

"  Were  I  without  the  least  w  n-d  to  be  missing,  it 

Might  cause  remark,  and  clien  gossip  would  say 

There  was  reason  peculiar  for  going  away. 

I  suspect  that  the  major,  keen-scented,  quick-eyed, 

Some  hint  of  the  truth  has  already  descried  : 

His  allusion  to  Rivermet  may  have  been  wide 

Of  all  purpose  he  had,  except  simply  to  see 

If,  in  parting  thus  early  from  Isabel  Lee, 

I  should  hasten  to  Geraldine  Hope.     Having  heard 

Our  reputed  engagement  discussed,  it  occurred 

To  him,  doubtless,  that  I  have  been  guilty  of  treason." 

He  felt  his  face  flush  in  the  dark,  as  if  reason 


GEBALDINE. 


151 


"Were  ample  for  such  an  unpleasant  impression. 
"My  self-respect  once  was  my  surest  possession, 
I  fancied  :  I'm  losing  my  grip  on  it  fast. 
Can  a  future  of  duty  deep  cover  this  past 
So  it  cannot  stare  up  at  me  pallid  and  white, 
Like  the  face  of  a  friend  unforgiving,  whom  quite 
I  have  killed  with  keen  cruelty  ?    Can  I  still  live 
My  poor  future  so  bravely,  that  self  can  forgive 
The  sad  wrong  I  have  done  it,  and  lift  up  its  head 
As  if  shame  were  not  living,  and  trust  were  not  dead  ? 
Yonder  river  runs  tranquil  and  sweet  as  it  glides 
To  the  sea ;  but  the  ocean's  unquenchable  tides 
Are  but  bitterness  all.     Do  I  stand  on  the  brink 
Of  a  sea  as  resistless  and  bitter,  where  sink 
The  sweet  hopes  of  these  earlier  years  ?    Must  I  sail 
By  the  compass  of  duty,  though  borne  by  a  gale 
Of  fierce  passions  to  harbor  unkind  ? ' ' 

So  he  mused 
And  he  nuestioned  till  midnight.    His  conscience  refused 
The  short  comfort  of  sleep  until  well  toward  the  morn- 

ing. 
He  rose  in  good  time  for  the  steamer,  and  scorning 
The  pitiful  weakness  that  so  overpowered 
His  strength,  and  compelled  him  to  fly  like  a  coward, 
He  walked  to  the  landing,  and  hastened  aboard. 


li' 


V' 

1  •. 


?! 


vm 


'Ski 


As  he  sat  on  the  deck,  the  glad  sunrise  restored 
Him  in  part  to  himself.     He  is  wanton,  in  truth, 


r 


152 


OERALDINE. 


(Who  is  farther  away  from  his  age  than  his  youth,) 
Who  can  see  the  dawn  flush,  the  horizon  fast  redden, 
The  color  burn  into  the  skies  that  were  leaden, 
The  stars  slip  away  into  measureless  spaces, 
The  mountains  grow  rosy  and  glad  as  their  faces 
Look  sunward  and  catch  the  first  smile  of  the  day, 
And  not  thrill  with  the  glory  revealed,  and  not  say 
In  his  heart  a  thanksgiving. 

The  Islands  quick  faded 
In  mellowest  distance.     The  sunlight,  unshaded 
By  fleck  of  a  cloud,  or  by  film  of  a  mist, 
Lay  across  the  broad  river,  and  lovingly  kissed 
Every  ripple  to  laughter  and  silence.     A  spell 
Of  enchanting  content  on  the  voyager  fell : 
From  this  land  of  the  real  all  gladly  he  turned 
To  a  country  of  dreams  where  they  never  have  learned 
To  forget  and  be  wise. 

And  the  day  wore  along. 
When  the  quivering  steamer  dashed  into  the  strong, 
Angry  sweep  of  the  rapids,  Trent  roused  to  the  scene, 
And  became,  till  it  passed  them,  a  spectator  keen. 
Did  they  typify  being,  his  being  ?    Must  he 
From  the  currents  of  peace  'rresistibly  flee 
To  such  wild  buffetings  ?    Was  there  nothing  before 
Like  the  beauty  behind,  where  the  rush  and  the  roar 
Of  this  channel  tempestuous  early  should  fade 
Into  murmurous  music,  ^olian  made 
By  the  harp  of  his  memory  ? 


GERALDINE. 


153 


Eager  and  swift 
The  boat  flew  to  the  beckonhig  billows  that  lift 
Far  above  the  sharp  ledges  at  anchor  beneath, 
And  that  over  a  current  so  treacherous  wreathe 
Into  sparkle  and  foam.     In  the  swirl  apd  the  sweep 
Of  the  wavea,  that  so  madly  and  merrily  leap, 
They  went  madly  and  merrily  downward  careering. 
No  anger  of  rock  or  of  river  once  fearing,  — 
A  spirited  race  as  with  water  is  run  ! 

Where  the  silver  St.  Francis,  asleep  in  the  sun, 

Smiled  them  welcome  unworded,  they  drifted  from  sound 

Into  silence,  —  a  silence  as  sweet  and  profound 

As  is  midsummer  calm,  —  and  from  struggle  to  rest. 

So  there  come  to  our  lives,  when  we  stand  the  hard  test 

Of  the  billows  that  buffet  us,  reaches  so  still 

That  we  drift  in  delight  with  the  current's  calm  will. 

And  find  peace. 

The  broad  lake  of  the  river  was  smooth 
As  the  sky  overhead,  and  its  beauty  might  soothe 
Any  trouble  of  soul.     Far  away  on  the  left 
The  low  spire  of  St.  Regis  in  peacefulness  cleft 
The  horizon  of  blue  ;  far  away  to  the  right 
The  blue  hills  of  the  south  faintly  bounded  the  sight ; 
And  before  them  the  river's  magnificence  swept. 
As  the  steamer  straight  onward  her  patient  way  kept, 
To  the  narrower  channels  below.     Here  and  there 
A  stray  water-fowl,  lazily  beating  the  air, 


154 


GEBALDINE. 


"Was  the  only  suggestion  of  life  beyond  reach 
Of  the  vessel  itself :  if  the  silence  had  speech, 
It  was  only  an  echo  of  yesterday's  life, 
Or  it  hinted,  mayhap,  of  some  possible  strife 
Yet  to  be. 

As  the  sun  was  fast  sinking,  its  flame 
Of  white  heat  into  rosy  red  burning,  they  came 
To  the  river's  superlative  charm,  — the  La  Chine. 
It  is  just  a  mad  passion  of  waters  between 
Two  long  levels  of  tranquil  repose.     The  St.  Lawrence 
Here  dashes  the  majesty  grand  of  its  torrents 
Swift  down  the  decline  ;  here  it  hurls  them  in  wrath 
High  above  the  rough  ledges  that  torture  its  path ; 
Here  it  ripples  and  laughs,  here  it  seethes  and  it  surges, 
As  on  to  St.  Peter's  sweet  quiet  it  urges 
Its  dangerous  way  ;  here  it  dances  and  sings  ; 
Here  it  pours  and  it  roars,  and  its  wild  current  flings 
Into  spray  ;  here,  with  grandeur  majestic,  it  sweeps 
O'er  its  breakers,  and  smooth  and  unbroken  it  leaps 
From  the  crest  of  the  low  cataract ;  here  it  beats 
Into  fury  along  the  sharp  headlands,  retreats 
From  its  futile  attack  with  the  thunder  of  hate. 
And  renews  it  again  ;  here  it  flies  to  the  fate 
That  awaits  it,  with  passionate  force  ;  here  it  lingers 
As  if  it  were  clasping  compassionate  fingers 
In  loving  farewell ;  here  it  hurries  and  flashes,  ' 

And  scurries  and  gleams,  and  in  mad  columns  crashes 
Against  the  high  rocks  that  defy  it  insultingly ; 


GERALDINE. 


155 


Here  it  springs  over  the  ledges  exultingly, 

Breaks  into  foam,  and  goes  merrily  drifting 

And  lifting,  and  leaping  and  plunging,  and  shifting 

From  eolor  to  color,  as  if  there  were  dyes 

Of  all  marvellous  tints  where  it  flashes  and  flies  ; 

Here  it  lifts  the  stout  prow  that  encounters  it,  sways  it 

With  terribly  masterful  will  that  betrays  it 

Almost  to  disaster  and  death  ;  here  you  feel 

A  quick  shiver  of  fear  course  along  the  boat's  keel. 

Till  she  struggles  with  pain  like  a  person,  and  shudders 

With  live  apprehension,  and  writhes  in  her  rudder's 

Strong  hold,  and  leaps  forward  at  length  as  if  greeting 

Her  moment  of  mastery,  heart  and  soul  beating 

With  martyrlike  purpose  heroic  :  for  here 

She  may  sail  with  the  sky  bending  over  her  clear 

As  a  crystal,  the  winds  in  Euroclydon's  caves 

All  asleep,  and  yet  meet  as  wild  tempest  as  raves 

When  the  demon  of  storm  his  black  anger  has  hurled 

O'er  the  waters,  and  God  has  forgotten  the  world. 


:l 


V?, 


As  he  stood  on  the  bow  of  the  steamer,  Trent  saw 
The  smooth  waters  uplift,  as  if  swept  by  a  flaw 
Of  some  wind  that  he  felt  not.     A  rift  it  appeared 
At  the  first ;  but  as  to  it  they  steadily  neared. 
It  grew  angry  and  strong  as  the  surf  of  the  ocean : 
He  saw  the  wild  channels  in  wilder  commotion, 
And  heard  their  low  thunder,  more  sullen  and  loud, 
Like  a  warning  to  venture  no  farther.     The  crowd 


li 

1 


156 


GEBA  LBINE. 


Gathered  round  him,  alert  and  intent.     At  the  wheel, 
The  grim  face  of  their  pilot,  with  muscles  of  steel 
Quick  to  answer  command,  was  immovably  set, 
Looking  into  the  torrent  beyond.     As  they  met 
The  first  break  of  the  water,  a  breathless  suspense 
Came  upon  them,  a  fear  that  no  human  defence 
Could  avail  against  madness  like  this. 

Through  the  leaping 
And  boiling  and  thundering  waves  they  went  sweeping 
And  surging,  a  sense  as  of  rapidly  sinking 
Within  them,  a  tardy  and  cowardly  shrinking 
From  fury  still  madder  to  come.     And  yet  faster 
They  swept  through  this  turbulent  hell  of  disaster, 
Where  ruin  and  wreck  seem  forever  at  home. 
Through  the  billows  of  green  and  the  breakers  of  foam, 
Sinking  down  with  a  tremor  and  thrill  o'er  the  ledges 
Beneath,  and  careening  far  over  the  edges 
Of  cataracts  highest,  the  stout  vessel  tossed 
Like  a  shell  in  the  surf,  its  swift  course  often  crossed 
By  the  out  jutting  rocks  that  so  cruelly  waited 
To  crush  it,  but  always  as  happily  fated 
To  shun  its  hard  foes,  and  each  moment  confounded 
By  terrors  yet  greater. 

The  thunders  resounded 
In  mightier  music  majestic  ;  the  leap 
Of  the  waters  was  wilder  and  fiercer ;  the  sweep 
Of  their  desperate  will  conquered  being  and  breath 
As  the  gasp  of  the  dying  is  conquered  by  death. 


GERALDINE. 


157 


Still  the  pilot  peered  out  on  the  tempest  before, 
Undismayed  by  its  lenible  tumult  and  roar, 
And  the  captain  stood  silent  and  stern  at  his  bells, 
With  a  look  as  intense  as  if  tolling  farewells. 
'Twas  a  mad,  irresistible  race  with  the  devils 
Of  furious  flood,  where  their  turbulent  revels 
Are  maddest,  —  a  race  to  remember  as  glorious, 
Once  you  have  won  it,  and  panting,  victorious. 
Through  its  wild  pleasure  and  peril  at  last 
To  the  tortuous  channel  below  you  have  passed. 
And  you  know  by  the  quieter  waters,  serene 
As  the  sunset,  you  safely  have  run  the  La  Chine. 


Q, 


158 


GEHALDINE. 


XVIII. 


■ 


Trent  remained  for  a  day,  but  to  pay  the  brief  call 

Of  a  tourist  in  passing,  at  gray  Montreal ; 

Then  uneasy,  uncertain,  he  walked  the  boat's  deck 

That  should  land  him  next  morning  at  quainter  Quebec. 

Until  late  in  the  evening  he  paced  up  and  down, 

Looking  back  on  the  walls  of  the  vanishing  town, 

Looking  out  on  the  opposite  islands  low  lying 

In  beauty  of  green,  on  the  sky  that  was  dyeing 

Itself  in  the  crimson  and  scarlet  and  gold 

Of  the  sunset,  with  eyes  half  indifferent.     Cold 

To  the  color  that  warmed  all  about  him,  and  glowed 

The  glad  heart  like  a  dream  of  the  tropics,  he  rode 

Through  the  lingering  twilight,  and  into  the  dark. 

The  dim  shores  faded  out.     A  late  fisherman's  bark 

Came  in  call,  and  stole  by  like  a  ghost,  with  its  sails 

Wing-and-wing,  as  if  wooing  the  slumbering  gales. 

Some  hilarious  raftsman,  afar  out  of  sight. 

Let  his  lusty-lunged  laughter  float  out  on  the  night 

Till  it  frightened  the  echoes.     The  passengers  aft 

Over  gossip  and  story  occasional  laughed. 

Till  Trent  listened  in  positive  pain.     He  was  lonely, 

And  longing,  and  heartsick,  as  they  can  be  only 


OERALDINE. 


159 


"Who  taste  the  one  pleasure  of  life  but  to  miss  it, 
"Who  pine  for  the  face  of  a  friend,  when  to  kiss  it 
Would  open  the  windows  of  heaven. 

He  went  in 
The  deserted  saloon,  compensation  to  win 
For  his  loneliness  there,  if  he  could.     Sitting  down 
To  the  open  piano,  he  hastened  to  drown 
His  regrets  and  unrest  in  its  magical  flow. 
To  his  delicate  touch  it  responded  in  low. 
Sympathetic  sonatas,  that  lingered  and  thrilled 
On  the  sensitive  ear,  or  in  melodies  filled 
With  the  wordless  compassion  of  song.     So  he  played 
As  the  mood  was  upon  him.     Some  quiet  ones  made 
Their  way  in  from  the  deck,  and  close  up  to  his  side  ; 
But  he  heeded  them  not  —  or  his  manner  belied 
Any  heeding.     Enrapt  in  the  harmonies  rare, 
He  could  easy  forget  every  trouble  and  care, 
All  the  common  surroundings  of  time  and  of  place. 
Through  the  sweetness  of  song,  some  enrapturing  grace 
Breathed  upon  him  its  witchery  soft,  till  he  knew 
Neither  doubt,  nor  misgiving,  nor  dread.    Thus  he  grew 
To  be  soberly  glad.     Thus  he  sang,  ere  he  ceased, 
In  a  strain  that  the  gladness  of  singing  increased, 
Of  a  lesson  he  learned  from 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  EAST. 

I  saw  the  day  fade  into  darkness ; 
I  saw  the  glow  shade  into  gloom; 


if 


ill 

^  ill 


i 


160 


GERALDINE. 


And  I  felt  a  great  dread  in  my  soul  as  I  said, 
"  Can  the  niglit  bring  a  bud  to  its  bloom  ? 

Can  there  ever  be  born  a  bright  morrow 
Of  sorrowful  dark  such  as  this  ? 

Will  the  sun  ever  shine  with  its  glory  divine, 
And  the  beauty  and  blessing  I  miss  ?" 

I  sat  in  my  doubt  half  despairing ; 

I  knew  not  the  way  I  should  grope : 
So  I  wondered  and  wept  by  my  hope  as  it  slept, 

And  I  feared  it  the  death  of  my  hope. 
More  deep  was  the  darkness,  and  denser 

The  gloom  that  enveloped  me  there  ; 
And  my  faith  grew  so  weak,  it  no  longer  could  speak 

The  sweet  syllables  shaping  a  prayer. 

O  Fafhei,  forbearing  and  tender, 

Have  mercy  on  souls  that  are  dumb  I 
To  their  silence  reply  through  the  dark,  "  It  is  1 1 " 

As  in  comforting  lova  thou  dost  come. 
The  need  may  be  deepest  that  cries  not 

For  lack  of  str6ng  agony's  word: 
O  Father,  come  near  with  thy  comfort  and  cheer. 

And  give  answer  as  if  thou  hadst  heard  I 

A  bird  singing  low  in  the  silence 

Brought  healing  for  hurting  to  me: 
For  I  saw,  looking  far  by  the  horizon  bar. 

What  the  sons  of  men  ever  may  see,  — 
The  gloom  of  the  midnight  departing; 

The  day,  from  its  bondage  released, 
Stealing  up  through  the  space,  with  a  light  on  its  face, 

The  glad,  wonderful  light  in  the  east. 


m 


GEBALDINE. 


161 


"  The  night  of  my  vigil  shall  vanish," 

I  sang  with  the  song  of  the  bird ; 
"  For  the  sun  never  set  on  a  yesterday  yet, 

To  rise  on  a  morrow  deferred. 
The  dawn  is  as  sure  as  the  darkness, 

The  pledge  is  as  true  as  the  boon ; 
For  the  light  in  the  east  never  failed  us,  nor  ceased 

To  make  certain  the  morning  and  noon." 


n* 


it,  I  i 


w 


As  he  sang  in  a  baritone  mellow  and  trained, 
With  a  feeling  and  thrill  that  were  deeper  than  feigned, 
]\Iany  lingered  and  listened,  and  finally  sighed. 
That  a  song  so  beguiling  and  glad  should  have  died 
Into  silence  so  soon. 

He  arose  and  went  out. 
lie  had  sung  himself  back  into  peace  from  the  doubt 
He  had  wrestled  with  so  through  the  days.     It  might  be 
That  the  morrow  would  wound  him  afresh  :  he  was  free 
From  all  weary  besetments  to-night.     He  could  rest 
In  the  darkness  untroubled  by  di*ead,  and  possessed 
By  no  fear  for  the  end. 

The  next  morning  the  height 
Of  historic  Cape  Diamond  first  greeted  his  sight, 
And  above  the  gray  walls  of  the  citadel  hung 
The  tricolor  of  Britain.     A  battle-ship  swung 
By  its  anchor,  asleep  in  the  harbor  below. 
The  bright  ro^r^fs  of  the  city  took  dazzle  and  glow 
From  the  sun  but  just  risen.    Without  haze,  or  the  fleck 
Of  a  cloud,  the  sky  shone  upon  silent  Quebec. 


ii 


t'.  - 


5^     ■ 


Jf-JiJ* 


162 


GEEALBINE. 


When  the  steamer  swung  round  in  the  channel,  and  swept 

With  some  bustle  and  stir  to  her  landing,  he  stepped 

From  the  New  to  the  Old  ;  for  the  centuries  waited 

Here  once,  and  b*Ince  then  have  been  always  belated. 

As  up  to  the  gate  from  the  river  you  climb, 

You  go  back  a  long  cycle  or  two  into  time  ; 

You  see  round  you  the  life,  and  the  works,  and  the 

ways 
Of  the  world  in  its  ruder  and  ruddier  days, 
When  the  color  of  being  so  readily  run 
To  the  surface,  that  battle  and  pillage  were  done 
For  the  suke  of  the  doing ;  when  war  was  a  thing 
To  be  studied  and  learned  for  the  fame  it  should  bring  ; 
When  the  shedding  of  blood  was  a  part  of  Christianity, 
Practised  and  preached  for  the  good  of  humanity. 


Please  don't  infer  that  they  pillage  and  plunder 
To-day  in  the  sleepy  old  town  ;  do  not  wonder 
If  Trent  beheld  murder  and  rapine  p,nd  lust 
As  in  wars  mediaeval,  where  settles  the  dust 
Of  the  past  undisturbed  on  a  present  too  quiet 
To  start  a  more  valiant  crusade  than  a  riot. 
I  made,  it  may  be,  an  unfortunate  reference, 
Too  comprehensive  and  broad,  out  of  deference 
Only,  in  faci,  to  the  city's  antiquity. 
History  simply  concedes  the  iniquity 
To  it,  'tis  true,  of  repelling  long  sieges, 
Defending  the  onset  of  loyalty's  lieges, 


GERALDINE. 


163 


Withstanding  the  shock  of  the  enemy's  hosts, 
And  compelled  to  see  carnage  unsought. 

But  the  ghosts 
Of  dead  heroes  yet  walk  the  high  battlements  round  it ; 
Eed  fame  has  a  place  where  men  sought  it  and  found  it ; 
Still  grim  and  defiant  re-echo  the  guns 
That  in  silence  have  slept  through  a  century's  suns ; 
In  the  cry  of  the  sentry  a  dim  challenge  calls 
Out  of  long-buried  lips  from  the  citadel  walls  ; 
The  wild  music  of  musketry  breaks  on  the  air, 
Where  the  garner  is  death  for  the  gallant  who  dare  ; 
And  above  all  the  present's  calm  quietude  reigns 
The  fierce  tumult  of  strife  upon  Abraham"'s  Plains. 


ill 


m 

1;p 


Through  the  quaint,  crooked  city  our  friend  made  his 

way, 
Searching  out  the  things  quaintest  by  night  and  by  day  ; 
Walking  over  the  battle-field  hard  by  the  town  ; 
From  the  parapets  airy  and  bold,  looking  down ; 
Looking  on  at  the  garrison's  showy  parade  ; 
Idly  watching  the  piide  and  the  fashion  displayed 
On  the  terrace  ;  or  bowling  right  merrily  on. 
Through  the  Gate  of  St.  Charles  or  the  Gate  of  St. 

John, 
In  a  rocking  caliche^  to  the  country  that  sleeps 
Beyond  city  and  suburb  at  peace,  or  where  leaps 
Montmorenci  in  beautiful  haste  to  be  wed 
With  the  wooing  St.  Lawrence.     The  life  that  he  led 


C1   „ 

f  1? 


! 


164 


GEBALDINE. 


For  a  week  was  the  life  of  a  dreamer  unstirred 
By  the  impulse  of  action.     lie  languidly  heard 
The  faint  callings  of  duty,  and  answered  them  not. 
In  the  midst  of  such  sleepy  surroundings,  forgot 
Was  the  wide-awake  being  and  doing  so  near 
In  his  future.     The  lotos-blooms  redolent  here 
He  would  press  to  his  lips,  and  forget. 

But  he  failed 
In  forgetting.     Regret  his  good  purpose  assailed, 
And  wherever  he  went  he  was  haunted  by  thought 
Of  what  had  been  and  must  be.    His  dreams  ever  caught 
The  sweet  flavor  of  emerald  islands,  the  sheen 
Of  the  waves  as  they  twain  had  long  drifted  between 
In  those  days  of  delight,  and  his  sweetest  repose 
Was  a  blessed  remembrance. 

Most  happy  are  th^se 
Who  have  only  remembrances  blessed  !  who  turn 
From  no  memories  bitter,  with  feelings  that  burn 
Like  a  fire  in  the  breast !    They  have  come  to  the  garden 
Of  paradise  so  without  knowing  it.     Pardon 
For  sins  of  the  past  cannot  blesseder  be 
Than  in  granting  forgetfulness  certain  and  free 
Of  the  sin  put  away,  that  henceforth  it  may  never 
Stand  ghostly  and  grim  by  the  present's  endeavor, 
And  mock  it,  and  make  it  afraid. 

Though  the  time 
Was  so  full  of  a  dreamy  content,  to*  the  rhyme 
Of  each  day  a  sad  music  was  set,  lik-c  ?  moan 


GERALD  IN  E. 


165 


liti 


Amid  mellowest  laughter,  —  a  low  undertone, 
Never  ceasing,  half  heeded,  half  heard,  but  existent, 
And  paining  the  ear  of  the  soul  with  persistent 
Continuance.     "Walk  where  he  would,  he  could  hear 
The  low  pulsing  of  pain  far  away,  and  yet  near 
As  the  conscience  within.     He  could  never  forget 
To  the  full  of  forp-etting,  so  long  as  Regret 
Was  his  daily  companion,  rose  with  him  at  dawn, 
And  sat  with  him  at  eve  when  the  twilight  was  gone 
Till  he  bade  her  a  weary  good-night. 

At  the  end 
Of  a  week  he  took  up  delayed  duty,  and  penned 
A  long  letter  to  Geraldine  Hope.     If  it  read 
Like  his  former  epistles,  but  little  it  said 
Of  the  ardent  affection  of  lovers,  implying 
What  might  have  been  written,  in  no  wise  denying 
By  evident  lack  what  he  often  had  told. 
While  he  wrote  it,  in  fact,  if  the  love  had  grown  cold 
That  he  felt  for  her  once,  it  was  only,  it  seemed 
To  himself,  by  comparison.     Passion  undreamed 
In  its  mastery,  coming  unheralded  quite, 
Had  not  hidden  this  older  love  out  of  his  sight 
As  a  thing  very  worthful  and  sweet. 

Are  degrees 
With  the  heart  so  impossible  ever  ?    Are  these 
Who  have  burned  the  hot  flame  of  fierce  passion's  desire 
To  its  ashes,  no  more  to  be  warmed  by  the  fire 
Of  some  calm- glowing  feeling?    Believe  it  who  will : 


166 


GERALBINE. 


You  may  sit  by  the  blaze  of  your  passion,  and  thrill 
With  quick  grief  as  it  flickers,  and  falters,  and  dies  ; 
But  some  day  from  the  embers  new  color  may  rise 
Into  glowing,  and  gladden  you.     Grieving  is  brief, 
Or  the  sum  of  this  being  were  simply  a  grief. 


OERALBINE. 


167 


XIX. 


}> 


"My  dear  Geraldine, — 

"  Pardon  unwonted  delay, 
So  his  letter  began,  "  in  my  writing.     Don't  play 
At  the  brief  indignation  you  never  must  feel 
At  my  gravest  shortcomings,  nor  try  to  conceal 
The  sweet  fact  that  long  silence  has  new  revelation 
Of  need.     I've  been  dreaming,  and  lacked  animation 
For  more.     That's  the  only  excuse  I  can  render. 
There's  something  that  lurks  in  the  crystalline  splendor 
Of  summer  days  here  that  I  cannot  explain  ; 
It  has  proved,  in  my  case,  a  most  excellent  bane 
For  the  poison  of  purpose  to  do.     I  have  drifted 
From  morning  to  night  like  the  veriest  gifted 
Do-nothing  of  genius,  —  my  only  ambition 
To  see,  and  to  feel,  and  be  glad.     If  the  mission 
Of  sunshine  were  ever  performed  as  a  healing 
And  free  soporific,  in  balminess  stealing 
Through  heart  and  through  brain,  and  so  lifting  the 

weight 
Of  hard  duty  and  care,  it  is  here.     How  the  late 
Mellow  twilights  beguile  to  repose  !     How  the  calm 
Of  each  morning  seems  pressing  some  opiate  balm 


Hi 


t    4 


Uliniipi  IJIJ 


I'll 


^'«T 


1.;;^ 


? 


168 


OERALDINE. 


On  the  eyelids  !     How  earth  in  a  beautiful  swoou 
Seems  to  lie  through  the  glow  of  each  brief  afternoon  ! 
How  the  far-away  mountains  are  hallowed  with  rest, 
As  if  truly  the  summits  of  God  !     How  the  west 
Into  marvellous  color  and  majesty  glows, 
As  the  sun  to  his  morrow  magnificent  goes 
Through  a  gateway  of  gold  ! 

"  You  may  say,  if  j^ou  choose, 
I  am  florid  in  feeling.     I  never  shall  lose 
Out  of  memory's  life  the  week's  rest  I  have  known 
Here  in  quiet  Quebec.     When  I  weary  am  grown 
Amid  duties  to  come,  I  shall  dreamily  drift 
Out  of  bustle  and  crowd,  to  the  holiday  gift 
A  kind  fortune  has  granted  to  have  and  to  keep, 
And  be  sweetly  refreshed  as  if  gladdened  by  sleep. 

* '  Having  been  the  whole  round  of  the  places  historical 

Here,  I  might  now,  in  a  style  paregorical, 

(Sleepy,  you  know,  like  the  air  of  the  town,) 

And  with  guide-pages  handy,  proceed  to  put  down 

All  the  facts  and  the  figures  important.     But  no  ! 

You  shall  wait  yet  a  year,  and  come  with  me,  and  grow 

Even  wiser  than  I  am  concerning  the  place. 

Do  I  see  a  glad  flush  stealing  over  your  face 

At  the  prospect  so  pleasant?     I  like  the  half-blush 

That  you  wear  at  odd  times,  when  you  say  I  must 

hush 
Some  fond  nonsense  or  other.     You're  prettiest  then. 


GEIiALDTNE. 


169 


''  III 


Do  not  show  the  same  bhish  to  less  fortunate  men, 
Lest  they  envy  me  more  ! 

*'  As  for  history  here  — 
In  the  magical  glow  of  to-day's  atmosphere 
Tliere  is  little  but  being  historic,     ^^nd  yet, 
If  I  lounge  on  the  Terrace  when  Fashion  has  set 
Its  gay  current  there  soon,  I  shall  see  as  much  pri-le 
As  disports  itself  now  on  the  popular  side 
Of  Broadway,  New  York,  in  this  day  of  our  Lord 
Eighteen  hundred  and  blank.     If  I  greatly  abhorred 
The  Dame  Fashion,  I'd  say  with  some  bitterness  mild, 
She  was  wrinkled  and  gray,  even  history's  child ; 
And  I'd  point  you,  in  proof,  to  that  notable  twain 
Who  began  their  existence  in  clothes  rather  plain, 
And  became  quite  ashamed  to  be  seen.     But  I'll  grant 
That  the  pride  which  so  gayly  would  flutter  and  flaunt 
The  fine  trappings  of  dress  is  a  modernized  thing, 
And  that  over  the  picture  the  promenades  fling 
A  bright  hue  of  the  present,  to  lessen  and  lighten 
The  half-sombre  tint  of  the  past,  and  to  heighten 
The  picturesque  whole. 

"  Yet  yoi  feel,  when  you  stand 
On  the  parapet  yonder,  as  though  in  a  land 
Of  dim  yesterdays  fled  ;  and  you  walk  the  quaint  street 
As  if  certain  some  knight  mediaeval  to  meet ; 
And  you  listen  to  mass  in  the  Jesuit  piles 
Of  the  priests,  as  if  monks  moved  about  in  the  aisles 
From  the  far  middle  ages. 


ft 
1* 


ii  •!■  r 


in 


r 


if  ii; 


170 


GEBALBINE. 


"  Poor  priest-ridden  people  1 
If  only  there  lifted  some  truth-telling  steeple 
To  point  the  true  way  they  must  go !     But  the  spire 
Of  the  Jesuit  never  points  heavenward  mueh  higher 
Than  head  of  the  prelate  or  priest ;  and  the  soul 
Of  the  dead  or  the  dying  must  pay  proper  toll, 
Or  go  seeking  its  paradise  long.     In  this  dreary 
Sahara  of  doubt  the  one  spot  that  is  cheery 
And  vernal  alone  is  the  Virgin.     Dear  Mother 
Of  Christ !     Because  each,  in  believing,  his  brother 
Becomes,  we  may  hallow  her  thus  with  our  love 
As  the  mother  of  all ;  but  before  and  above 
The  sweet  mother  Madonna  forever  is  Christ ; 
And  whoever  from  worshipping  him  is  enticed 
To  a  less  adoration,  while  walking  the  way 
Of  a  faith  without  fruitage,  must  penalty  pay, 
And  not  penance.     Some  paintings  a  worthy  grace  give 
To  the  Virgin  ;  but  Christ  as  an  infant  must  live 
In  the  arms  of  the  mother  Madonna,  or  hang 
From  the  cross  where  he  died  with  the  crucifix  pang 
On  his  face,  as  the  Jesuits  have  it,  instead 
Of  ascending  on  high,  from  his  place  with  the  dead, 
And  remaining  a  Saviour  for  all,  with  no  need 
Of  a  priest  to  stand  up,  and  with  him  intercede 
For  the  seeking  and  penitent. 

' '  Battle-fields  teach 
Many  lessons.     The  monuments  on  them  may  preach 
A  wise  gospel  that  calls  for  no  shedding  of  gore. 


GEEALDINE. 


171 


On  the  plains  where  the  men  of  Montcahn  fled  before 
The  wild  eharge  of  their  foes,  is  the  legend,  '  Here  died 
Wolfe  victorious.'     Life  is  a  battle-field  wide, 
And  we  fight  for  the  right  or  the  wrong  till  the  end. 
I  have  wondered  how  many  who  fall,  my  dear  friend. 
Are  the  victors,  how  many  go  down  to  defeat, 
Never  gaining  the  victory  certain  and  sweet. 
But  discouraged,  disheartened,  dismayed.    Marble  shaft 
Never  rises  above  them  ;  no  spring  where  they  quaffed 
The  last  cup  of  refreshing  is  pointed  to  those 
Who  still  linger,  and  face  the  fierce  onset  of  foes 
That  the  world  never  sees  ;  but  they  slumber  unsung, 
And  are  silent  forever.     God  pity  the  tongue 
That  prays  feebly  for  help  from  defeat  at  the  last, 
When  it  ought  to  be  singing  thanksgiving,  as  fast 
It  sinks  down  into  silence  !     I  think  it  were  blest 
Thus  to  die  like  this  soldier  of  fortune,  who  pressed 
To  his  lips  a  clear  draught  from  the  spring,  and  then  went 
Into  rest,  let  us  hope,  with  a  warrior's  content. 
Having  won.     But  he  won  as  must  all,  having  fought 
Like  a  faithful  and  true  knight  of  God.    Had  he  sought 
Cheaper  victory,  doubtless  defeat  would  have  robbed 
Him  of  glory  and  fame.     Never  faithfulness  throbbed 
Out  of  life  into  death  without  recompense  just. 
Though  it  come  when  the  heart  is  but  ashes  and  dust. 

"  But  I'll  spare  you  philosophy  further.     Please  credit 
This  much  to  the  mood  of  my  pen,  that  but  led  it 
Astray. 


'l4 


I     :,i-,f' 


,1,1. 


172 


GERA  LDTNE. 


"  I  have  lingered  hero  longer  than  most 
Of  the  sight-seers  do,  who  '  from  pillar  to  post ' 
Hurry  on  as  if  fevered  with  haste.     By  and  by, 
In  the  sweetest  of  leisure  indeed,  you  and  I 
Will  thus  tarry  untroubled,  unhurried,  together, 
And  paradise  find  in  this  marvellous  weather. 
To-morrow  I  leave  for  the  Saguenay,  —  far 
Down  the  river,  and  up  where  the  solitudes  are. 
I  have  made  Montmorenci  a  visit  to-day 
For  the  last,  and  shall  list  to  the  exquisite  play 
Of  its  murmurous  music  no  more,  lest  I  listen 
Id  dreams.     Where  its  waters  gleam  ever  and  glisten, 
Like  showers  of  pearls  in  the  sun,  I  have  laid 
Half  the  day  full  of  dreamy  delight.     The  cascade 
Partly  faces  the  town  ;  but  a  leisure  hour's  ride 
Down  the  river's  left  bank,  j^et  unseen  from  the  side. 
You  approach  it.     In  front,  between  it  and  the  stream 
It  is  leaping  to  meet,  is  the  vision  supreme 
Of  its  beauty.     A  green,  grassy  point  there  invites  you 
To  linger  and  gaze,  and  with  gazing  delights  you  ; 
For  yonder  the  play  of  the  waters  is  sweet 
As  the  sunlight  that  silvers  the  foam  at  your  feet ; 
Their  loud  thunder  has  lost  all  its  resonant  ring. 
And  in  murmurs  iEolian  softly  they  sing 
Through  the  distance  between  ;  like  white  gossamer  lace 
They  droop  down  the  precipitous  deep,  with  the  grace 
Of  a  bridal  veil  gleaming  with  gems.     You  could  linger 
In  rapt  fascination  forever,  the  finger 


GERALDINE. 


173 


Of  silence  laid  soft  on  your  lips,  tluit  you  might 
Ne'er  attempt  the  expression  in  words  of  delight 
Inexpressible. 

"Yonder,  with  beautiful  smile, 
The  St.  Lawrence  sweeps  onward,  and  kisses  the  Isle 
Of  Orleans  like  a  lover,  and  fondly  embraces  it ; 
Turn  half  around  from  the  falls,  and  one  faces  it,  — 
River  of  silver  and  island  of  green, 
A  pure  emerald  set  in  a  circlet  of  sheen, 
A  fair  picture  of  peace  as  man  ever  has  seen. 
On  the  opposite  side  are  the  cottages  low 
Of  the  poor  hahitans,  an  irregular  row, 
Ivuuning  nigh  to  the  dim  water-line  ;  far  beyond. 
In  the  yet  dimmer  distance,  the  sky  bonding  fond 
To  caress  them,  the  mountain- tops  blend  with  the  blue, 
And  your  vision  has  bounded  the  reach  of  the  view. 
Turn  again  to  the  right  and  the  west,  and  you  gaze 
On  the  slumbering  city,  its  roofs  all  ablaze 
In  the  sunshine,  and  flooding  its  soberer  grays 
AVith  a  tropical  glory  ;  its  batteries,  grim 
And  defiant  as  hate,  become  mellow  and  dim 
In  the  distance  ;  its  rugged  and  angular  steeps 
Sloping  gently  and  soft  to  the  river  that  sleeps 
At  their  base  ;  and  above,  the  red  cross  of  St.  George 
From  the  citadel  flung. 


a 


I  have  sat  by  the  gorge 
Which  the  point  overlooks,  so  enraptured  and  charmed 
By  the  scene,  that  my  driver  no  doubt  was  alarmed 


4 


- 


In. 

'  4', 


t'^ 


'It 


pm 


ill 


I  111 


174 


GEBALBINE. 


For  his  fare,  apprehensive  that  I  would  attempt 
To  slip  off  as  a  suicide,  going  exempt 
Fr<  m  the  fees  common  visitors  pay.     As  I  staid 
There  to-day,  and  the  fall  sweeter  melodies  played 
In  farewell,  I  wrote  thus  of 


THE  SUNXY  CASCADE. 

Fair  Montmr-'eiici  gleaming  goes 

Adown  its  dim  defdes: 
In  nooks  no  hmnan  vision  knows, 
Its  tricksy  current  laughing  flows, 

Flash  out  its  silver  smiles. 

Far  up  amid  dim  mountain  dells, 
It  drinks  from  crystal  springs: 
Of  cooling  rills  and  mountain  wells 
It  gayly  sips,  and  gladly  tells, 
As  free  it  leaps  and  sings. 

It  lingers  long  in  quiet  grots 

"Where  bending  birches  weep: 
"Where  bloom  the  blue  forget-me-nots 
Alojig  the  warm  and  sunn^  spots, 
It  sings  itself  to  sleep. 

It  wakes  to  laugh  at  foaming  rift. 

And  flies  willi  merry  glee 
Adown  Uie  swirling  rapid  swift, 
"Where  mossy  walls  in  wonder  lift 

Their  whitening  heads  to  see. 


GERALBINE. 

It  sinks  to  rest  by  plcasaiit  shades 

Where  meadow-reaches  run, 
Or  gleams  coquettish  through  tlie  glades 
"Where  long  it  mirrored  dusky  uiaids 

Who  dusky  warriors  won. 

And  rousing  soon  to  rougher  ways, 

It  sports  Ihrough  rocky  fen, 
Where  bright  the  sunlight  streams  and  plays 
Within  the  lonely  woodland  maze, 

And  longs  for  haunts  of  men. 

Then  down  the  wider  steep  it  flies 

With  eager,  hastening  feet, 
And  sweet  complaint  for  smiling  skies. 
To  leaji  with  hiiighter  and  surprise, 

And  glad  its  wooer  greet. 

Serene  the  broad  St.  Lawrence  flows, 

Yet  winning  with  its  smiles; 
And  Montmorenci  gleaming  goes 
In  joy  to  wed  its  sweet  repose 

Where  bliss  alone  beguiles. 

Forever  down  its  dizzy  height 

xhe  cascade  sunny  leaps, 
Its  waters  robed  in  angel  white, 
Its  song  an  anthem  of  delight 

From  heaven's  own  azure  deeps. 

Its  pearly  sjiray,  to  diamonds  kissed, 

Plays  truant  with  Ihe  breeze; 
And  Oil  it  borne  as  lightest  mist. 
In  flush  of  golil  and  amethyst, 

It  seeks  the  simset  seas. 


175 


s  •■'' 


-!« 


176  GERALDINB. 

The  fleecy  foam  in  beauty  falls 

To  hide  the  bare  abyss; 
From  out  its  dripping  cavern-halls 
A  witching  Undine  laughing  calls 

To  win  her  lover's  kiss. 

And  ever  on  in  sportive  race 

Fair  Montmorenci  runs; 
Forever  changing  all  the  grace 
That  wimples  on  its  smiling  face, 

Yet  changeless  as  the  sun's. 

"  I  must  bid  you  adieu  till  each  other  we  see, 
When  my  roving  vacation  has  gone,  vis-a-vis.** 
And  he  signed  himself  brief,  in  a  style  that  was  meant 
To  seem  loving  as  ever, 

"Your 

"Percival  Trent." 


:*■! 


GERALDINE. 


17T 


XX. 

Major  Mellen  had  business  or  pleasure  again, 
Or  it  may  have  been  both,  down  at  Rivermet,  when 
lie  returned  from  his  summer's  diversion.     He  made 
A  long  call  upon  Geraldine  Hope,  and  he  played 
In  the  crudest  way  with  her  peace.     She  acquitted 
Him,  true,  of  deliberate  wish  that  admitted 
Such  torture  to  her :  she  could  scarce  have  believed 
That  with  purpose  prepense  he  would  idly  have  grieved 
Her  as  now.     She  accepted  the  pain  that  he  gave 
AVith  a  patient  acceptance,  submissive,  and  brave. 
And  withal  she  was  glad  that  he  came  ;  for  he  brought 
A  great  blessing  of  comfort  at  first ;  and  it  caught 
Her  up,  willing  and  weak,  in  the  shock  of  its  flow, 
Overcoming  her  quite. 

' '  I  can  never  forego 
Paying  tribute  to  friendship  as  pleasant  as  yours," 
He  remarked,  "  and  the  business  is  kind  that  insures 
Ol^portunity  easy.     I'm  barely  returned 
From  the  River  St.  Lawrence,  all  blistered  and  bunied 
l>y  the  sun,  as  you  see.    We  have  had  a  month's  leisuring, 
Filled  running  over  with  vagabond  pleasuring. 
Sandwiched  with  some  of  gay  fashion's  formalities, 


.f  J 


;;t' 


^ii  r 


:   till 


178 


GERALDINE. 


Spiced  with  a  few  of  flirtation's  dualities. 

Jolliest  company,  too,  that  I  ever 

Was  out  with,  and  rather  uncommonly  clever. 


>» 


"  You  must  have  been  fortunate,  major,"  she  said 
As  he  paused,  though  she  felt  that  the  color  had  fled 
From  her  face. 

"  Well,  I  was  :   it's  my  normal  condition, 
You  know,"  and  he  laughed,  as  if  every  ambition 
He  knew  had  been  gratified.     "When  a  man  chooses 
To  waste  a  few  weeks  doinir  nothinijf,  he  loses 
His  temper  as  well  as  his  time,  if  the  rest 
Who  should  aid  him  in  laudable  ways  are  possessed 
Of  the  devils  of  social  discomfort.     They  tear 
Very  many,  Miss  Hope,  I  am  willing  to  swear 
On  the  word  of  a  man  who  has  studied  them  well : 
They  are  devils  of  wdiich  there's  no  record  to  tell 
Out  of  whom  or  of  what  they  were  cast.     It  may  be 
They  went  down  with  the  swine  to  their  bath  in  the  sea, 
And  escaped  —  with  their  piggish  propensities,  grunting 
At  every  experience,  always  affronting 
Your  pleasure  and  patience.     There  can't  be  a  place 
That  is  better  for  lifting  the  mask  from  the  face 
Of  a  character  rude  than  half-roughing  it  where 
The  good-humoi  and  fun  are  a  part  of  the  fare. 
There  were  none  in  our  set  with  whom  grumbling  was 

chronic ; 
No  one  of  us  bored  all  the  rest  with  Byronic 


H] 


GEBALDINE. 


179 


Quotations  and  sentiments  ;  nol)ody  flung 

A  wet  blanket  of  sneers  from  the  loom  of  his  tongue 

Till  he  ehilled  the  whole  eompany ;  all  were  discreet 

And  good-natured,  forbearing  and  wise,  as  is  meet 

For  a  party  of  idlers  like  ours.     Even  I 

\\\  deportment,  I  fancy,  was  rated  as  high 

As  the  others  —  unless  it  was  Trent." 

As  he  named 
Her  belov(^d,  it  seemed  he  had  purposely  aimed 
A  keen  arrow  to  enter  her  bosom.     She  gasped 
As  if  panting  for  air,  and  convulsively  clasped 
Her  hands  close  in  unheeded  beseeching. 

' '  He  carried 
The  honors  off  easy  —  or  would  if  he'd  tarried 
As  long  as  the  rest.     Your  good  fellows  who  sing, 
And  who  play,  and  make  speeches,  and  do  every  thing 
As  if  that  were  i\\Q\v  forte ^  have  the  best  of  us  noodles 
"Who  count  with  the  ladies  about  as  their  poodles,  — 
Poor  curs,  our  one  talent  the  meek  one  of  following, 
Led  by  a  string.     When  I  see  women  swallowing 
Music  like  Trent's,  with  their  hearts  in  their  faces, 
As  ready  to  yield  him  their  love  and  embraces 
As  even  to  listen  and  praise,  I  am  vexed 
That  with  dower  so  meagre  I  ever  was  sexed 
With  the  males.     It's  discouraging,  isn't  it?'* 


Waiting 


No  answer,  not  stayed  by  the  half-hesitating 
Appeal  that  spoke  out  of  her  face,  he  asserted 


fifi 


If;'- 


m 


m 


!4! 


tyi 


180 


OERALDINE. 


"If  ever  coquettes  have  outrageously  flirted 
With  men,  it  is  men  of  his  fortunate  class. 
The  less  charming  ones  they  are  content  to  let  pass 
In  the  main,  as  not  worthy  their  wickedest  wiles, 
And  we  get  what  I  call  their  superfluous  smiles. 
We  are  lucky,  perhaps,  after  all,  in  not  knowing 
The  sharpest  effects  of  their  skill,  and  in  going 
Unscathed  where  the  cleverer  fellows  receive 
Cruel  injury." 

White  to  her  lips,  and  in  tones 
That  were  trembling,  and  swift  might  have  sunk  into 

moans. 
She  besought  revelation  of  mystery  hinted 
At  thus  in  his  words. 

"  '  The  Palla'dium  '  printed 
A  paragraph,  saying  your  friends  had  been  drowned." 


"  So  I've  heard.    They  were  caught  in  a  storm,  and  we 

found 
Their  boat  empty  and  broken  the  following  day. 
After  searching  for  hours.     The  quick  journalist's  way 
AVas  to  telegraph  promptly  their  death.   When  they  came 
Back  alive,  as  obey  did,  they  were  rather  to  blame 
For  denying  a  fact :  so  the  newspaper  said 
Nothing  of  it.  and  silently  left  them  for  dead." 

The  hard  ring  of  his  sentence  sarcastic  was  much 
Like  a  dash  of  cool  water  when  fainting  :  its  touch 


GERALDINE. 


181 


Gave  her  strength.    Yet  her  heart  appeared  swelling  to 

burst, 
And  her  lips  were  as  dry  as  if  parching  with  thirst ; 
And  a  great  dizziness  overcame  her  so  nearly, 
She  whispered  a  prayer. 

"  Percy  Trent's  case  was  clearly 
A  desperate  one  after  that.     So  romantic 
Conditions  must  plunge  a  man  in  the  Atlantic 
Of  love  beyond  rescue.     He  fled  from  his  fate 
Like  the  coward  all  men  are  with  flirts.     I  should  hate 
To  be  hit  in  the  heart  as  he's  been  ;  for  these  poets 
Take  hard  any  hurt  of  that  kind,  though  I  know  it's 
Quick  over  with  often.     He'll  write  better  verse 
After  this  ;  and  his  life  will  not  be  any  worse 
For  the  blow  she  has  dealt  him." 

"  You  think  Mrs.  Lee 
Is  unmerciful  then?  " 

"  Yes.     I  know  her  to  be 
A  coquette  of  the  wickedest,  once  she  attempts 
Any  conquest  in  earnest.     She  kindly  exempts 
From  her  efforts  all  average  men,  for  they  sicken 
Her  soon  ;  but  a  man  of  some  genius  can  quicken 
The  strongest  allurements  within  her.     She  gives 
Herself  cheerfully  over  to  winning  him  ;  lives 
In  the  pleasure  she  finds  in  her  growing  success ; 
Leads  hirr  on  in  the  quietest  fashion,  with  less 
Of  apparent  desire  than  indifference  ;  wins 
All  his  worship,  and  —  stabs  him,"  .^ 


hi 


*?l' 


;*i! 


182 


GERALDINE. 


"  And  wickedly  sins 
Against  womanhood,"  warmly  she  answered  him,  throb- 
bing 
Her  heart  through  her  speech.     "There  can  never  be 

robbing 
More  wanton  than  takes  of  the  treasure  of  life 
For  the  taking,  then  presses  keen  Cruelty's  knife 
To  the  vitals,  and  leaves  it." 

' '  The  stab  never  reaches 
So  deep  as  that  quite,  and  the  victim  beseeches 
A  cure  from  some  sister  of  mercy.     The  curate 
Her  ministry  finishes.     All  must  endure  it,  — 
The  wound  and  the  treatment,  I  mean."  And  he  sneered 
In  his  cynical  fashion. 

She  trembled,  and  feared 
To  reply. 

"  As  for  Trent,"  he  continued,  sarcastic 
Yet  earnest,  "  his  love,  I  believe,  is  elastic 
Enough  to  rebound  from  the  bitterest  strain. 
He  will  weaken  a  while  with  the  shock  and  the  pain ; 
But  in  time  he  will  marry  that  sister  of  mercy, 
"Who  never  may  dream  that  the  poems  her  Percy 
Produces  hereafter  take  color  and  tone 
From  a  love  that  was  earlier  born  than  her  own. 
It's  the  way  of  the  world.     When  with  kisses  we  wed, 
We  have   stood   by  the  grave  of  some  passion,   and 

shed 
The  hot  tears  of  forgetting." 


I  Ma! 


GERALDINE. 


183 


"  You  speak  for  the  men, 
It  may  be  ;  "  and  she  rallied  indignantly  then. 
"  Men  may  love  and  forget :  women  love  till  they  die." 


"  Then  they  stand  at  the  altar,  I  fear,  with  a  lie 

On  their  lips   many  times,"    he  .responded.       "The 

ehances 
Don't  favor  fulfilment  of  early  romances. 
We're  creatures  of  fate,  or  of  hard  circumstances 
That  govern  us,  come  between  us  and  the  kindest 
Conditions  of  being,  and  lead  in  the  blindest 
Of  paths.     Women  do  with  their  love  as  they  must ; 
And  the  truest  of  faith,  the  sublimest  of  trust. 
Cannot  yield  the  full  fruitage  of  love  absolutely 
And  ever.     A  woman  may  love  when  she  mutely 
Must  look  her  farewell.     If  she  never  forgets, 
She  pays  penalty  twice,  in  her  love  and  regrets, 
For  the  sex  that  compels  her  to  silence.     She  ought 
To  have  recompense  rare  for  a  fact  that  is  fraught 
With  unfairness  the  greatest,  —  the  fact  that  avers 
A  man's  freedom  of  speech,  and  then  robs  her  of  hers. 
But  suppose  she  were  granted  like  freedom  of  voice. 
It  might  chance  that  she  make  an  unfortunate  choice. 
And  win  only  refusal,  and  go  disappointed 
Away,  as  the  men  do,  you  know.     It's  disjointed 
And  cruel  and  wrong,  if  the  woman  must  cling 
To  her  love  when  it  comes  to  be  only  a  sting 
And  a  weariness  to  her." 


ill 


i! 


184 


GERALDINE. 


*  He  spoke  with  a  ban 

On  his  flippant  expression,  that  frequently  ran 
To  severity  reckless.     If  ever  sincere 
And  believing,  he  seemed  to  be  now. 

"You  appear 
Full  of  sympathy,  major,  for  women  who  fail 
To  find  sweetness  in  loving,"  she  said  ;  and  her  pale 
Cheeks  were  glowing  with  color  returned.     "  You  would 

make 
Of  their  love  but  a  fancy  short-lived,  for  the  sake 
Of  in  charity  sparing  them  pain.     You  contend 
That  love  blooms  like  an  annual,  ready  to  lend 
Of  its  fragrance  to  him  who  will  water  it  well 
When  its  winter  of  grief  has  gone  by.     You  compel 
A  belief  that  we  love  as  we  like,  and  our  fancies 
Are  cherished  or  dropped  as  the  fortunate  chances 
Of  being  direct.     But  I  cannot  accept 
Such  a  theory.     Granted  that  women  have  wept 
Bitter  tears,  and   then   wiped   them   away,  and   then 

carried 
A  smile  for  their  friends,  — even  say  that  they  married, 
And  grew  into  matrons  with  faces  like  saints 
For  the  happy  light  in  them,  and  made  no  complaints 
Of  the  past,  —  I  believe  they  remembered,  and  knew 
That  they  never  could  wholly  forget,  and  were  true 
To  the  law  of  their  natures.     God  made  us  to  love  ; 
And  we  love  for  a  purpose  beyond  and  above 
The  mere  loving.     Some  discipline  comes  to  us,  up 


GEBALDINE. 


185 


From  the  dregs  that  are  found  in  the  bitterest  cup, 
That  we  never  should  learn,  did  we  drink  and  forget." 


vShe  was  smiling,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  let 
Slip  away  unawares  down  her  beautiful  cheeks  ; 
And  the  major  observed  them. 

' '  Who  foolishly  seeks 
To  convince  any  woman,"  he  said,  "  must  repent 
And  be  silent,  or  soon  be  convinced.     I'm  content 
To  admit  you  the  argument,  since  you  appeal 
To  economies  only  your  faith  can  reveal. 
And  my  questioning  doubts.     Divine  purposes  blind 
Me  wherever  I  turn.     Where  they  seem  to  you  kin:l. 
They  appear  to  me  cruel.     One  loves  and  is  glad. 
And  another  goes  out  from  her  paradise  sad. 
And  in  sorrow  she  ought  to  forget ;  and  you  say 
She  must  always  remember,  for  this  is  the  way 
That  her  Maker  has  ordered.    He  brings  her,  you  think, 
A  deep  draught  the  most  bitter,  and  bids  her  to  drink  ; 
And  she  never  may  sweet  enough  happily  sip 
To  remove  the  bad  taste  that  is  left  on  her  lip. 
It  is  better  to  drink  and  forget,  as  men  do 
Who  sip  kisses  of  comfort,  devotedly  woo 
Where  'tis  easy  to  win,  and  make  matches  at  last 
For  the  happy-faced  matrons  who  cling  to  their  past 


Without  evident  grieving." 


Of  fine  irony  in  them. 


His  words  had  the  ring 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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186 


GERALDINE. 


"  Some  bitter  drauglits  bringc 


I 


I 


she  answered. 


"The 


Their  own  subsequent  sweetness 

taste 
May  grow  pleasanter  to  us,  though  never  effaced  : 
It  may  lose  all  its  bitterness  even,  and  leave 
Little  more  than  the  kiss  of  a  friend.     We  may  grieve, 
And  be  glad  even  while  we  remember  ;  for  God 
Will  be  kind,  I  am  sure,  and  will  spare  us  the  rod 
Of  a  wretched  remembrance  when  once  we  have  learned 
What  his  wisdom  would  teach.    He  has  tenderly  turned 
Many  Marahs  to  wells  of  refreshing  and  strength. 
I  believe  every  heart  can  find  gladness  at  length 
In  the  faith  that  all  lessons  of  God  are  as  good 
As  the  Master  himself." 

' '  And  no  reasoning  could 
Be  so  strong  as  your  faith,"  he  replied.     "I  should 

know 
It  wore  idle  to  challenge  that.     Since  I  must  go 
Very  soon,  I'll  admit  I  am  vanquished." 

lie  laughed 
In  his  easy  and  spirited  way,  and  with  craft 
And  with  cunning  address  he  diverted  their  speech 
iLto  other  relations  ;  yet  often  the  reach 
Of  his  cynical  comment  was  cruel  and  keen, 
As  with  utterance  sharp  it  went  Hashing  between 
A  half-credence  and  ready  denial.     lie  spared 
Nothing  reverent  now  from  allusion  that  dared  ' 

To  be  lightly  irreverent,  measured  and  mocked 


QERALBINE. 


187 


The  pretences  of  creed  and  profession,  and  talked 
Like  the  doubter  he  was. 

Many  heard  him,  and  felt 
A  quick  shrinking  and  pain  from  the  blows  that  he  dealt 
Without  mercy  wherever  he  went ;  but  the  most 
Only  laughed  at  his  wit  and  the  half-hidden  boast 
In  his  words  of  a  wise  unbelief,  and  took  pleasure 
In  hearing  him.     Gifted  with  insight  to  measure 
The  feelings  that  shyly  kept  silence,  he  sounded 
The  shallows  of  conscience  and  motive,  and  bounded 
The  average  purpose  with  ready  precision, 
Then  singled  them  out  for  sarcastic  derision, 
And  sneered  at  their  shame. 

When  at  length  he  had  ended 
His  call,  and,  with  delicate  lightness  intended 
To  soften  his  previous  words,  he  had  said 
An  adieu,  the  mixed  feelings  of  Geraldine  led 
To  as  mingled  expression.     She  wept,  and  she  smiled 
Amid  weeping.     She  uttered  her  thanks,  like  a  child 
In  return  for  a  token  surprising,  to  Ilim 
Who  had  spared  her  belovtid.     With  eyes  growing  dim, 
And  with  language  that  faltered,  she  prayed  him  to  keep 
Her  beloved  as  hers,  that  none  other  might  creep 
In  between  her  warm  heart  and  his  own,  that  their  ways 
Might  be  never  divided.     She  prayed,  as  he  prays 
For  his  soul  who  is  losing  it,  pleading,  with  pain, 
That  she  never  might  know  the  wild  longing  and  vain 
Of  a  love  unrequited.     She  whispered  the  name 


188 


GERALDINE. 


Of  her  lover  in  tenderness  sweet  (though  it  came 
Through  her  tears)  in  the  confidence  always  she  gave 
To  her  Lord,  and  besought  him  in  mercy  to  save 
Them  from  drifting  apart.     Yet  her  heart  by  and  by, 
In  the  midst  of  her  need  and  her  longing,  could  cry, 
"  Let  it  be  as  thou  wilt,  loving  Father ;  for  mine 
Is  the  weakness  of  love,  but  the  wisdom  is  thine," 


I  i 


■t:!.^ 


GEItALLINE. 


189 


XXI. 

In  the  late  summer's  glory  that  softly  suffused 
All  the  world,  Percy  Trent  idly,  dreamily  cruised 
Down  the  River  St.  Lawrence.     The  wonderful  sweep 
Of  its  waters  grew  wider  and  grander.     The  sleep 
Of  the  sunlight  upon  them,  uustirred  by  a  dream 
Of  wild  passion,  was  sweetly  unbroken.     Supreme 
In  majestical  beauty  the  river  rolled  far. 
Through  a  land  where  the  deepest  of  solitudes  are, 
On  its  widening  coui'se  to  the  sea.     In  the  mood 
Of  its  marvellous  peace,  that  serenely  did  brood 
O'er  the  scene,  he  went  sailing  away  to  content. 


When  the  afternoon  lengthened,  and  day  was  far  spent, 

They  caught  sight  of  Cocouna,  where  wealthy  Canadians 

Saunter  in  summer  like  happy  Arcadians. 

Trim  and  white- visaged,  it  sat  on  the  shore, 

Miles  remote  from  the  steamer  that  steadily  bore  - 

For  the  Saguenay's  mouth,  far  across  ;  and  it  seemed 

Like  a  city  set  low  in  the  sky,  as  it  gleamed 

On  the  crystal  horizon,  —  a  city  of  cloud. 

Far  away  from  the  din  and  the  fret  of  the  crowd, 

In  some  country  of  silence. 


190 


GERALBINE. 


ill 


At  Tadousac's  wharf 
They  made  landing,  and  tarried  to  look  at  its  dwarf 
Of  a  church,  and  the  relics  of  centuries  dead. 
Pretty  Tadousac  out  of  its  stillness  has  said 
Not  a  word  for  the  foreigner's  hearing.     It  hides 
In  its  modesty  shy  where  the  Saguenay's  tides 
Pour  their  inkiness  into  the  misrhtier  flow 
Of  St.  Lawrence  ;  and  none  of  its  quiet  can  know, 
And  the  charm  of  its  solitude  strange,  till  tliey  stand 
On  the  beautiful  beach,  where  its  delicate  sand 
Ever  tempts  the  most  delicate  feet  to  a  bath. 
Or  go  straying  alone  by  some  vine-hidden  path 
To  the  bluffs  overlooking  the  I'iver  and  bay. 
In  the  dark  of  the  waters,  white  porpoises  play, 
And  make  merrily  bright  the  tranquillity  there  ; 
But  no  music  of  birds  is  borne  out  on  the  air. 
And  no  whirring  of  spindles,  no  clangor  of  steel. 
And    no   screaming    of    whistles,   make  frequent  ap- 
peal 
To  your  sense  of  activity.     Languor  and  rest 
Are  as  opiates  here  ;  and  the  common  behest 
To  a  laborer's  brain  and  his  wearying  heart, 
To  ari-  :^,  and  in  duty  and  doing  take  part. 
Is  a  whisper  unheard,  where  the  speech  of  the  time 
Is  in  whispers  J  with  rest  for  its  rhythm  and  its  rhyme. 


In  the  deeper  and  mellower  hush  of  the  night. 
Amid  shadows  that  shut  the  wide  world  out  of  sight, 


GEEALBINE. 


191 


They  went  sailing  north-west.     The  next  morning  at 

seven 
The  Bay  of  Sweet  Laughter,  that  looks  up  to  heaven 
Untroubled  and  glad,  — sunny  Ila-IIa,  — gave  greeting 
With  smiles  of  surprise.    As  the  morning  sped,  fleeting 
As  mornings  of  pleasure  and  peace  ever  seem, 
The  sharp  bow  of  the  steamer  was  set  down  the  stream. 
And  they  sailed  with  the  tide  through  the  silence-     A 

sheU 
Of  pure  pearl  was  the  sky  overhead,  and  it  fell 
In  its  purity  silvern  and  white  to  the  hills 
On  the  left  and  the  right.     If  the  Lord  ever  stills 
A  fierce  tempest  of  feeling  run  high  in  the  breast, 
With  the  might  of  his  word  to  an  infinite  rest, 
It  is  here.     If  the  silence  of  God  ever  falls 
In  its  tenderness  down  on  the  world  from  the  walls 
Of  the  City  of  Gold,  they  have  known  it  who  sailed 
Through  the  Saguenay's  stillness. 

No  mariner  hailed 
Their  approach,  and  no  fisherman  shouted  his  word 
Of  salute.     The  soft  calm  of  the  air  never  stirred 
To  harsh  utterance  here,  or  the  wing  of  a  bird 
Flying  wearily  home  to  his  nest-keeping  mate. 
From  the  bold,  rocky  heights  that  were  grim,  deso- 
late, 
And  untenanted,  bounding  the  river's  deep  black 
From  the  sunny  Ila-IIa  to  the  quaint  Tadousac, 
Never  came  to  their  ears  or  their  vision  a  sound 


I    ! 


192 


GEBALDINE. 


Or  a  signal  the  solitude  deep  and  profound 
To  disturb. 

Cape  Eternity,  grandly  uprearing 
Its  dome  to  the  azure,  invited  their  nearing, 
And  thrilled  them  with  awe  of  its  might  so  tremendous. 
Cape  Trinity,  opposite,  lifted  stupendous 
And  mighty  its  masses  of  granite  to  greet 
The  sublimity  facing  it.     Majesties  meet 
In  no  kinglier  fashion  than  these,  as  they  tower 
Far  into  the  deep  of  the  blue  in  their  power 
Titanic,  from  out  the  deep  blackness  below  ; 
And  no  gloomier  depths  in  their  sombreness  flow 
To  the  sea  than  the  deeps  of  these  desolate  capes, 
That  in  silent  solemnity  cover  their  shapes 
Half  the  altitude  marvellous.     Sailing  beside 
Their  huge  granite  upheavals,  the  pomp  and  the  pride 
Of  humanity  fade  to  forgetting,  in  awe 
Of  the  Infinite  Presence  that  never  man  saw 
But  on  mountains  majestic  and  lonely.     The  lift 
Of  their  faces  is  Godward  ;  and  sudden  and  swift 
Is  the  leap  of  our  thought  from  each  adamant  crown 
To  the  Spirit  eternal  that  loving  bends  down 
With  a  glad  benediction  forever.  . 

Too  soon       I 
Came  the  close  of  that  sheeny  and  bright  afternoon 
As  they  sailed  down  the  river  of  silence.    The  sweetest 
And  gladdest  of  days  is  forever  the  fleetest : 
It  slips  into  yesterday's  arms,  and  we  say 


GERALDINE. 


193 


A  good-niglit  to  its  pleasure  and  peace  in  the  gray 
Of  a  twiliglit  that  will  not  forbear.     If  it  take 
Of  our  heart's-ease,  and  cruelly  leave  but  the  ache 
Of  disquietude,  hunger,  and  longing,  what  need 
That  we  wonder  and  grieve  ?    They  are  blessed  indeed 
Who  their  faces  have  steadily  set  from  the  past, 
And  who  will  not  look  back. 

The  next  morn  they  made  fast 
To  the  wharf  at  Quebec,  and  Trent  hastened  by  rail 
To  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire.     A  summer  day's  sail 
Has  its  charm  for  the  soul  in  disquiet :  the  ills 
Of  unrest  are  forgot  in  the  calm  of  the  hills 
Everlasting.    Who  walks  where  their  grandeur  uprears 
Should  be  glad  with  a  hallowing  gladness  that  cheers 
Like  a  word  of  the  Lord  never  lost.     In  the  strength 
Of  their  masterful  quiet  and  glory,  at  length 
Hi  should  stand  as  do  they,  with  their  face  to  the  throne 
Of  their  Maker,  in  patience,  and  wait. 

As  alone 
Through  the  mountains  he  wandered  uplifted,  his  soul 
Catching  glimpses  beyond  of  the  land  of  its  goal, 
lie  was  near  to  content.     He  could  muse,  in  a  mood 
Of  serene  exaltation,  on  passion  that  wooed 
Him  astray  from  the  pathway  of  duty,  nor  shrink 
I'rom  the  wearisome  way  he  must  journey,  nor  think 

In  this  mood  he  could  lie 
sunniest  slope,  see  the  fleets  of  the  sky 
'  fleecy  white  silence  float  dreamily  ])y. 


Bitter  things  of  himself. 


194 


GERALDINE. 


See  the  thistledown  drifting  at  peace  on  the  air, 
Hear  the  tinkle  of  bells  far  below  him,  and  care 
For  no  morrow  of  possible  pain. 

Yet  aware 
Of  the  days  that  awaited,  nor  happily  blind 
To  their  certain  unrest,  though  now  calmly  resigned 
In  a  willingness  patient,  he  staid  to  behold 
The  glad  summer  in  garments  of  scarlet  and  gold 
Proudly  decking  herself  in  the  early  September, 
Wliile  sweetly  she  tarried  in  dreams  to  remember. 
Ere  leaving,  the  mountain-top  highest  he  climbed, 
And  with  vivid  and  sorrowful  prophecy  rhymed. 
Out  of  vision  unclouded,  and  quieted  fears, 
And  pathetic  concern,  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  TEAKS. 

If  I  climb  to  the  mountains  of  gladness, 

And  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  bliss, 
If  unheeding  all  sorrow  and  sadness, 

Forgetting  the  good  that  I  miss, 
I  look  out  from  my  uplands  of  being 

Across  the  broad  reach  of  the  years, 
I  grow  tenderly  sober  at  seeing 

The  shadowy  Valley  of  Tears. 


It  is  never  quite  lost  to  my  vision, 
Though  often  beyond  it  I  see 

The  green  slopes  of  the  summits  clysian 
That  wait  with  their  blessing  for  me ; 


GERALDINE. 


195 


And,  though  often  I  long  for  the  freedom 

That  yonder  eternally  reigns, 
I  remember  that  each  has  his  Edom 

Before  the  glad  Canaan  he  gains. 

Wlien  my  heart  with  tumultuous  throbbing 

Takes  up  the  sad  burdens  of  men, 
I  go  down  amid  sighing  and  sobbing, 

And  walk  the  dim  valley  again : 
A  sober,  sepulchral  procession 

We  make  as  we  journey  along. 
With  a  grief  for  our  only  possession, 

A  funeral  dirge  for  our  song. 

There  are  willows  above  us  low  bending, 

That  weep  with  us  over  our  woe ; 
And  the  mist  of  the  mountains,  descending, 

Bedews  all  the  way  as  we  go. 
In  the  dark  of  our  dubious  grieving 

We  walk  as  if  stars  had  gone  out. 
And  our  souls  were  grown  sick  of  believing 

The  morrow  were  more  than  a  doubt. 


There  are  hearts,  with  their  hunger  pathetic, 

That  walk  in  the  Valley  of  Tears ; 
There  are  souls,  in  their  badness  ascetic. 

That  liilger  and  grieve  through  the  years ; 
There  are  loves  that  come  silently  hither 

To  seek  for  some  treasure  of  cost, 
And  that  mourn,  as  a  bairn  for  its  mither. 

The  wonderful  love  that  is  lost. 


There  are  many  who  wait  and  who  wander 
Within  the  dim  valley  with  me, 


196 


OERALDINE. 


And  who  yearn  for  the  mountain  tojts  yonder, 
The  sunlight  and  gladness  to  see; 

But  a  stranger  I  look  in  their  faces, 
And  strangers  they  look  into  mine; 

And  as  strangers  we  grope  for  the  places 
Where  sunlight  and  gladness  may  shine. 

For  who  walks  in  the  valley  so  lonely 

Goes  there  in  his  sorrow  alone ; 
And  who  gives  friendly  greeting  gives  only 

For  bread  to  the  hungry  a  stone. 
They  may  touch  us  whose  yesterdays  tender 

Made  loving  and  living  supreme ; 
But  our  grieving  refuses  surrender. 

And  friendship  was  only  a  dream. 

I  am  far  up  the  mountains  of  being: 

The  mists  of  the  morning  below 
In  their  beauty  shut  out  from  my  seeing 

The  valley  where  soon  I  must  go ; 
But  I  know,  though  the  sun  of  my  hoping 

May  shine  with  a  gladness  that  cheere, 
That  I  soon  shall  be  wearily  groping 

My  way  in  the  Valley  of  Tears. 


You  may  smile  on  the  summits  of  gladness 

Who  never  have  wept  at  their  base ; 
But  in  time  with  the  garment  of  sadness 

You  closely  will  cover  your  face ; 
And  unknown  of  the  many  who  wander. 

Unknowing  as  they  are  unknown, 
You  shall  grope  for  the  radiance  yonder 

Across  the  dark  valley  alone. 


OERALDINE. 

Amid  pitiful  sobbing  and  sigliing 

Wlioro  willows  and  cypresses  bend, 
You  shall  walk  wliero  the  shadows  aro  lying, 

And  see  not  a  sign  of  the  end  ; 
You  shall  Icnow,  by  the  twilight  unl)rokea 

When  morn  on  the  mountain  appears, 
You  liavo  come,  without  warning  or  tokeL, 

At  length  to  the  Valley  of  Tears. 


19T 


198 


GERALDINE. 


2L.ux.LL* 


"When  she  read  the  long  letter  of  Percival  Trent, 

Loving  Geraldine  Hope  of  her  tenderness  lent 

To  its  words,  and  they  gladdened  her.    Still  he  was  hers 

In  possession  the  truest.     No  ^.oubt  ever  stirs 

The  fond  heart  to  keen  throbbings  of  pain,  but  ^'s  stilled 

By  repeated  assurance  of  love.     Never  thrilled 

Any  love  with  the  pang  of  distrust,  but  couli  glow 

With  the  gladness  of  faith  come  again,  like  the  flow 

Of  a  tide  that  has  ebbed. 

But  a  striking  omission 
She  saw  by  and  by,  that  began  to  condition 
Her  happiness  new.     Not  a  word  had  he  penned 
Of  his  late  episode :  from  beginning  to  end 
There  was  not  an  allusion,  in  fact,  to  his  friend 
Mrs.  Lee.     It  was  plain  that  he  could  not  have  known 
Of  the  published  report  of  their  death  that  had  flown 
With  such  cruelty  to  her ;  more  bitterly  certain 
It  seemed  that  his  silence  had  drawn  a  thick  curtain 
Between  her  and  par'o  of  his  past.     She  resented 
His  action  at  first,  nud  then  swiftly  repcL  ted 
The  feeling  she  had  not  expressed  ;  for  he  knew 
What  was  best  for  them  both,  and  in  kindness  he  drew 


GERALDINE. 


199 


Any  veil  that  might  hide  her  from  seeing.     Till  he 
Should  the  curtain  uplift,  she  would  reverent  be, 
Nor  profane  it  with  curious  touch.     She  could  wait, 
In  the  patience  of  prodigal  love,  for  the  late 
Revelation  that  love  would  compel.     If  it  never 
Were  made,  if  by  strange  providence  she  must  ever 
Relinquish  the  love  that  could  make  it,  perchance 
In  a  clearer  to-morrow  the  dark  cu'cumstance 
Would  light  up  into  blessing.     God  knew. 

If  she  came 
In  the  trust  of  her  faith  to  a  pitiful  blame 
Of  her  love,  to  a  fear  that  so  worthful  and  sweet 
An  incoming  as  this  in  her  life  were  not  meet 
For  the  Master's  approval,  or,  tearful,  to  ask 
If  he  chose  to  place  on  her  the  pain-giving  task 
Of  upyielding  it,  could  she  obedient  lay 
The  dear  sacrifice  on  the  Lord's  altar,  and  say, 
*'  I  have  given  thee.  Lord,  all  the  sweetest  and  best 
That  is  mine  "  ?  —  if  the  loss  of  her  love,  as  a  test 
Of  her  love  for  the  Master,  came  to  her  at  length. 
And  she  struggled  and  doubted  and  wept  till  the  strength 
Of  her  faith  O'^erpowered  her  heart,  — be  not  swift 
To  assert  that  she  lacked  the  great  womanly. gift 
Of  deep  loving ;  and  wait  till  all  women  you  learn^ 
Ere  you  doubt  if  the  heart  of  a  woman  can  turn, 
When  the  weakness  and  longing  of  love  make  it  falter. 
And  give  of  its  riches  unspared  on  the  altar 
Of  God. 


'1; 


^ 


200 


GERALDINE. 


There  are  heroines  kneeling  alone 
In  their  Holy  of  holies,  or  sitting  unknown 
Where  the  multitudes  worship,  whose  offerings,  made 
In  the  silence  of  faith  seldom  doubting,  have  paid 
Dearer  tribute  than  incense  of  patriarchs.     Laid, 
With  the  lingering  touches  of  womanhood  tender, 
In  tearful  but  cheerful  and  hallowed  surrender 
Before  the  veiled  face  of  their  Lord  as  he  waited. 
Such  offerings  precious  and  costly  were  fated 
To  pleasure  him  better  than  blood,  and  to  win 
Recognition  as  precious.     They  only  begin 
To  approximate  love,  who  in  selfishness  sin 
By  withholding  its  wonderful  treasure  and  sweetness, 
And  hindering  so  the  perfected  completeness 
Of  full  consecration. 

And  Geraldine  felt 
All  the  deepest  assertion  of  love  when  she  knelt 
And  said,  "  Lord,  if  this  thing  that  to  me  is  so  dear 
Has  been 'wrong  in  thy  sight,  let  me  hallow  it  here 
With  my  tears  of  upgiving,  and  yield  it  to  thee 
To  do  with  as  thou  wilt."     She  could  generous  be 
With  the  Master,  not  doling  him  meagrely  out 
Of  her  poverty's  wicked  withholding  and  doubt. 
But  as  lavishly  yielding  her  riches,  and  knowing 
The  best  she  could  give  must  be  beggarly  showing 
To  God,  the  one  Giver  of  all.     Though  she  gave 
With  a  liberal  heart,  that  was  noble  and  brave, 
She  well  knew  that  the  end  was  not  won  in  her  giving ; 


GEBALDINE. 


201 


I 


That  sacrifice  sweetest  to  God  is  a  living 

Obedience  daily,  when  truly  obeying 

Is  harder  than  praise,  and  more  costly  than  praying. 

She  knew,  if  the  Lord  should  her  offering  take, 

She  must  make  it  complete  through  the  lingering  ache 

Of  her  heart  in  the  wearying  days  to  be  met ; 

That  the  Lord  could  not  mean  her  to  drink  and  forget, 

If  he  gave  her  the  cup. 

She  was  human  ;  she  rose 
To  no  saint-nature,  clad  in  angelic  repose. 
In  this  crisis  of  faith  :  and  how  strongly  she  kept 
Her  humanity  weak  could  be  seen  as  she  wept 
For  the  love  she  might  lose.     In  the  time  intervening 
Ere  Percival  Trent  came  again,  the  full  meaning 
Of  painful  expectancy  blossomed,  and  bore 
Bitter  fruit  in  her  life.     Now,  as  never  before. 
She  was  wearied  and  troubled  of  soul.     For  the  rest 
Of  content  she  could  sobbingly  pray  ;  but  its  blest 
Benediction  should  come  as  the  Master  bestowed. 
Though  she  longed  for  the  peace  like  a  river  that  flowed, 
She  but  caught  an  occasional  draught  from  its  brink, 
As  her  thirsty  soul  pined,  even  panted,  to  di'ink 
To  its  measureless  blessing. 

When  Trent  came  at  1-st, 
From  her  wearisome  doubting  and  fearing  she  passed 
To  a  loving  acceptance  of  good  in  to-day. 
She  made  glad,  in  her  simple  and  beautiful  way. 
His  return  to  her  love.     He  was  hers  once  again,  — 


202 


GEBALBINE. 


II 

J  a. 

m 


The  one  prince  of  her  heart  mid  the  nobles  of  men. 
She  would  trust  till  he  told  her  to  doubt ;  she  would  show 
How  she  trusted  and  loved  till  he  made  her  to  know 
He  must  fail  of  requital.     Perchance,  if  he  cared 
For  another,  her  iove,  if  it  maidenly  dared 
To  give  new  revelation  of  being,  would  lure 
Him  away  from  his  fancy  to  faithfulness  sure. 
Could  the  Father  forbid  an  endeavor  so  pure. 
And  deny  it  success  ?    Could  the  semblance  of  sin 
Be  in  any  beguiling  made  only  to  win 
And  to  keep  what  she  felt  to  be  hers  ?    Worthy  winning 
It  was  ;  and  the  Father  such  dutiful  sinning 
"Would  quiciily  forgive. 

Do  you  wonder  that  Trent 
For  a  time  could  believe  the  strong  passion  was  spent 
He  had  wrestled  with  so  ?    He  had  come  from  the  hills. 
With  their  peace  fresh  upon  him,  their  masterful  wills 
Overmastering  feverish  impulse.     He  came 
Full  of  purposes  faithful,  and  penitent  shame 
Of  his  former  unfaith,  to  be  loyal  and  true  ; 
And  he  stood  by  her  side,  undeserving,  he  knew. 
With  no  wish  beyond  happiness  present,  believing, 
In  blind,  willing  credence,  that  folly's  sore  grieving 
Was  ended.     She  helped  his  belief  with  her  sweet 
Declarations  uusyllabled.     Passion's  defeat. 
With  the  aid  that  she  brought  him,  so  timely  and  tender, 
Yet  strong,  was  complete,  or  so  seemed.     Its  surrender 
He  smiled  at  in  strength  over-rated. 


r 


GERALBINE. 


203 


Tliey  talked 
In  the  language  of  lovers  ;  as  lovers  they  walked 
Where  the  waters  run  seaward  by  Rivermet's  side, 
To  behold  the  tall  maples  in  radiance  dyed 
Like  the  robes  of  a  qeeen  ;  and,  if  peace  were  denied 
In  superlative  measure,  these  twain,  who  received 
Of  its  blessing  more  moderate,  fondly  believed 
It  enough. 

"When  some  good  we  have  craved  appeara  less 
Than  will  meet  our  desire,  we  are  prone  to  possess 
The  full  bounty  in  easy  imaginings,  cheating 
Ourselves  that  we  may  not  be  cheated,  repeating 
The  pretty  delusion,  and  letting  it  seem 
To  be  fact :  so  we  make  of  our  moments  supreme 
A  half -fiction,  the  truth  very  deftly  disguising 
That  great  expectation  may  be  most  surprising 
In  lack  of  fulfilment.     Poor  dolts  that  we  are 
Thus  to  carry  our  covetous  folly  so  far ! 


204 


GEBALDINE. 


XXIII. 


In  November,  Trent  lectured  at  L- 


Mrs.  Lee 


Was  again  the  one  hearer  responsive  to  see, 
Of  all  present,  in  scanning  the  crowd  at  the  Hall. 
He  was  moved  by  the  current  magnetic,  and  all 
The  quick  feeling  begot  by  a  look  in  her  face. 
They  who  listened  were  stirred  by  the  magical  grace 
Of  his  speech,  as  he  never  had  stirred  them  before. 
In  the  musical  ring  of  his  words  there  was  more 
Of  a  sympathy  deep  than  he  knew,  or  than  those 
Whom  it  thrilled  could  define  or  describe. 

At  the  close 
Of  his  lecture  she  came  to  him,  —  came  as  the  rest, 
Who  with  greeting  and  compliment's  flattery  pressed 
To  his  side  ;  and  they  met  in  the  casual  way 
Of  a  common  acquaintance,  with  courteous  play 
Of  inquiry  and  answer.     The  major  took  part 
In  their  meeting,  and  studied  them  both  with  the  art 
He  had  mastered  so  well ;  but  no  secret  he  read 
Of  their  innermost  holding.     Their  manner  but  said 
They  were  friends  without  interest  deeper. 

They  went 
From  the  Hall  as  together  they  gossiped ;  and  Trent 


B^Mi  ! 


GERALDINE. 


205 


)se 


lent 


In  her  company  supped,  with  the  major.     If  either 
"Was  thrilled  by  the  strongest  remembrances,  neither 
Gave  sign.     Conversatic  n  was  easy,  and  ranged 
From  the  grave  to  the  gay  at  its  will.     They  exchanged 
Merry  trifles  of  wit  in  the  merriest  fashion  ; 
And  none  could  have  guessed  that  a  powerful  passion 
Hid  under  such  trivial  speech  and  composure 
So  perfect.     In  vain  for  some  look  of  disclosure, 
Some  word  of  deep  meaning,  the  major  made  scrutiny 
Keenest.     Swift  passion  was  dead,  or  its  mutiny 
Conquered  by  resolute  will. 

And  yet,  leaving 
To  seek  his  hotc'^    ^n  a  partial  deceiving 
Of  self  as  to  feeling  aroused,  and  believing 
Too  much  in  his  strength  to  make  safe  his  belief  in  ii, 
Percival  Trent  was  unhappy.     The  grief  in  it, 
Subtle,  deep-seated,  and  dimly  defined 
As  a  grief,  with  a  robbery  keenly  unkind. 
Took  away  from  his  evening's  endeavor  the  glad 
Sense  of  triumph.     He  walked  the  still  streets  with  a 

sad 
Recognition  slow  forcing  itself  on  his  soul, 
That  the  glamour  of  pub.  a     oproval  is  dole 
But  the  poorest  for  peace  ol      e  heart. 

The  next  morning. 
Regardless  of  silent  yet  forcible  warning 
Against  it,  he  called  on  his  friend  ;  and  she  met  him 
With  charming  serenity  graceful  that  set  him 


206 


OEBALDINE. 


To  wondering.     Could  it  be  she  whom  he  heard, 

When  her  feeling  had  swift  every  syllable  stirred 

With  deep  fervor,  confessing  u  love  too  supreme 

For  denial,  or  silence,  or  death  ?    Did  he  dream 

She  had  lain  on  his  breast,  with  her  heart  to  his  own, 

In  a  bliss  of  possession  too  sensitive  grown 

To  be  painless  ?    Was  this  the  same  woman  who  spoke 

Of  her  wilderness  barren  and  lonely,  and  woke 

His  quick  passion's  response?    Was  her  winning  repose 

Like  a  calm  of  the  tropics  deceptive,  that  glows  , 

With  the  heat  underneath  it  to  hurricane  wild  ? 


She  received  him  with  beautiful  grace,  that  beguiled 
Him  anew.     The  warm  grasp  of  her  lingering  hand 
Within  his,  like  a  breath  upon  dark  embers,  fanned 
His  swift  feeling  to  flame  ;  but  he  struggled  to  hold 
As  serene  a  demeanor  as  hers,  and  controlled 
Himself  well.     Without  blushes,  or  faintest  betraying 
Of  passionate  force  that  was  meetly  delaying 
Assertion,  she  talked  like  a  woman  long  wed 
With  content,  far  removed  from  the  girl  who  has  said 
Her  first  loving  confessional.     Part  of  the  harm 
She  might  do  to  a  heart  was  hid  under  the  charm 
So  elusive,  that  spoke  of  conditions  beyond 
Idle  feminine  art,  or  superfluous  fond 
Demonstration. 

His  lecture  she  praised  with  a  keen 
Apprehension  of  meanings  and  truths  ;  and  between 


GERALDINE. 


207 


Her  sweet  flatteries  gave  with  a  friendly  temerity 
Critical  words  that  declared  her  sincerity, 
Making  the  light  of  her  praise  i\ppear  strong 
By  the  shade  of  her  delicate  frankness.     As  long 
As  it  pleased  her,  they  talked  of  the  commoner  things 
Of  experience,  shunning  the  sensitive  springs 
That  can  open  the  heart ;  or  discoursed  of  the  newest 
Attemptings  in  prose  and  in  verse,  and  the  truest 
Successes  of  those  who  had  won.     She  appealed 
To  the  poesy  in  him  expression  to  yield 
With  the  power  and  art  he  might  master,  and  give 
Out  of  gifts  that  were  his  a  few  poems  to  live, 
And  win  laurels  undying. 

*'  I  honor  the  gifts 
Of  the  poet,"  he  said ;  "  and  my  pen  never  lifts 
To  do  rhythmic  endeavor,  but  keenly  it  longs 
For  the  genius  to  make  it  a  singer  of  songs 
That  may  gladden  the  future.     The  crudest  dower 
Men  have,  I  believe,  is  the  semblance  of  power 
They  know  to  be  weakness.     We  narrowly  miss 
A  great  good,  and  forever  we  fancy  that  this 
Is  the  sum  of  our  cruel  defrauding.     I  hear 
Now  and  then  the  sweet  accents  of  Poesy  clear. 
And  I  strive  to  repeat  them  ;  but  swiftly  they  fade 
Out  of  memory.     Silence  her  finger  has  laid 
On  my  lips ;    and  I  feel,  through  the  pain  that  has 

come  • 

To  my  soul,  it  were  happier  far  to  be  dumb." 


208 


GEJiALBINE. 


*'  But  the  singers  to  whom  the  world  listens  must  feel 

The  same  bitterness  often.     They  rarely  reveal 

The  full  music  that  thrills  them  :  they  breathe  a  few 

notes,  • 

And  the  rest  never  hallow  their  fortunate  throats 
For  our  blessing.     Moreover,  no  true  singer's  art 
Was  born  in  hun  whole  statured.  He  learns  of  his  heart, 
And  he  sings  as  he  learns.  He  must  grow  to  the  measure 
Of  full-singing  strength  in  a  studious  leisure 
Improved  by  the  lessons  of  pain.     You  can  turn 
To  the  poet's  best  pages  at  will,  and  there  learn 
How  he  grew  to  his  manhood  poetic  by  reading 
Between  his  own  lines  ;  for  his  silence  makes  pleading 
Of  sympathy.     Do  not  you  feel  he  has  striven 
To  teach  you  in  song  what  to  him  has  l^een  given 
In  cryings  for  utterance?  " 

Looking  with  furtive, 
Quick  glance  in  her  face,  he  beheld  the  assertive 
Appeal  that  so  haunted  it  often,  swift  showing 
Itself  through  her  smile.  With  his  blood  quicker  flowing. 
Yet  calmly,  he  spoke,  — 

' '  I  suspect  that  you  read 
With  a  vision  much  deeper  than  mine  ;  that  I  need 
My  poetic  first  lessons  to  learn  now  of  you : 
For  no  singer  is  heard  without  sympathy  true, 
And  deep  insight  to  see  what  are  mysteries  hidden 
From  all  but  the  few.     I  believe  you  were  bidden 
To  sing,  and  are  wickedly  silent.     For  me 


GERALJJINE. 


lod 


There  is  only  an  echo  of  song :  there  can  be 

No  outringiug  of  marvellous  notes  that  are  mine 

As  I  catch  them  direct  from  the  singer  divine 

To  whom  poets  all  listen.     And  yet  a  refrain 

May  be  tenderly  sung  till  it  softens  the  pain 

In  some  sorrowing  heart,  and  uplifts  it.     I'd  ask 

For  no  mission  diviner,  no  holier  task, 

AVere  I  laureate  crowned  for  the  world,  than  to  sing 

Of  its  sunsbiuc,  and  on  my  strong  melody  bring 

It  forth  out  of  the  dark." 

' '  By  and  by  you  will  print 
The  best  songs  you  have  sung,  and  will  give  us  a  hint 
Of  the  sweeter  to  come  :  I  believe  in  your  gift 
As  diviner  indeed  than  you  think.     It  should  lift 
You  above  the  great  chorus,  who  sing  out  of  tune, 
And  torment  us.     You'll  give  us  a  tenderer  rune 
Than  the  many  could  breathe,  if  they  stood  at  the  door 
Of  the  innermost  temple,  and  listened,  before 
They  began  to  make  echoes  of  song.     It  will  know 
Sweeter  cadence  and  mellower  grace  for  the  flow 
Of  last  summer's  experience  into  your  being. 
Some  deeps  of  clear  vision  have  come  to  your  seeing, 
You  needed,  for  charity's  sake  and  for  love's, 
To  behold." 

"  I  remember,  my  friend,  that  the  dove's 
Divine  errand  came  after  the  storm.     But,  if  sent 
When  the  floods  of  this  passion  so  idle  are  spent. 
Will  the  dear  dove  of  song,  flying  over  the  waste 


210 


GERALDTNE. 


Of  my  life,  come  again  in  her  comforting  haste, 
Bringing  olive-leaves  ?  " 

She  with  her  sudden  allusion 
Unmanned  him  ;  and  he  in  as  sudden  confusion 
llesponded,  he  hardly  knew  how.     With  the  look 
'  That  she  gave  him,  his  strong  resolution  forsook 
Ilim,  and  fled.     In  its  hunger  pathetic  he  saw 
The  great  want  that  wouk^  scorn  to  derision  all  law 
Of  denial,  if  free  from  its  bondage  of  chains. 
And  that  bondage  —  what  was  it  ? 

*'  For  you  there  remains 
Worthy  work  in  the  world,  and  who  labors  receives 
In  due  time  of  his  wages.     Your  dove's  olive-leaves 
Will  bring  promise  of  happy  fulfilment  to  make 
Your  life  rich  with  glad  increase.     You'll  sing  for  the 

sake 
Of  the  multitudes  eagerly  listening,  and  find 
Your  own  gladness  in  service  of  song  that  is  kind 
Most  of  all  to  yourself.     Good  Samaritan  singers 
Are  few,  I  believe,  who  divinely  are  bringers 
Of  oil  and  of  wine  to  the  wounded  and  sore, 
And  who  fail  of  a  blessing  themselves  as  they  pour 
The  sweet  blessing  on  others." 

She  spoke  with  some  feeling. 
Her  words  seeming  tenderer  still,  as  appealing 
She  looked  in  his  face. 

*'  Could  I  sing  you  to  peace, 
I  would  stop  by  the  wayside  forever,  nor  cease 


GERALDINE. 


211 


In  my  service  of  song  till  you  bade  me,"  he  said 
lu  his  passionate  utterance  low. 

"But  instead 
You  must  sing  for  the  mass,"  she  replied.     "  I  shall 

listen 
More  eager  than  they.     In        '  .ai .  I  ahall  christen 
As  mine  all  the  sweetest  and  tenderest  things 
You  may  breathe.    I  shall  comforted  say,  '  Now  he  sings 
For  the  neediest  one,  —  for  the  one  in  the  world 
Who  can  take  the  rich  treasure  of  sweetness  impearled 
In  his  notes,  and  feel  gladdest  and  richest  possessing  it.' 
Give  as  you  may  to  the  multitude,  blessing  it 
Freely  with  giving' s  extravagant  hand, 
I  shall  count  you  my  singer  henceforth,  though  you  stand 
On  the  highest  Parnassus,  and  I,  sitting  far 
In  the  valley  below,  see  you  shine  like  a  star." 


"With  a  mighty  endeavor  he  mastered  the  tide 
That  was  sweeping  him  on  to  expression  denied, 
Yet  invited.     He  rose  to  depart. 

"  I  shall  climb 
To  no  height  above  yours  ;  and  my  tenderest  rhj^me 
Must  forever  fall  short  of  the  ministry  sweet 
I  would  lend  it  for  you.     Never  song  so  complete 
By  a  poet  was  sung  as  my  longing  desire 
Would  make  vocal,  if  only  these  lips  knew  the  fire 
That  is  burning  my  heart.     But  my  lips  are  as  weak 
As  the  lips  of  a  woman." 


212 


GEE  A  L  DINE. 


He  smiled. 

' '  If,  to  speak 
Of  her  love,  a  weak  woman — the  weakest  —  might  dare 
In  the  words  that  were  fittest,  you'd  own  that  a  share 
Of  the  strength  of  her  heart  had  been  suddenly  lent 
To  her  lips."     And  the  look  that  she  gave  to  him  sent 
The  warm  blood  to  his  breast.     "  And  her  lips  need  be 

strong 
To  repress  what  in  utterance  could  be  but  wrong. 
Do  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  Their  silence  is  cruel,  when  speech 
Would  be  cruelty  worse.     Let  them  tenderly  teach 
The  same  silence  to  mine. '  *   And  he  kissed  her,  repenting 
At  once  the  request  and  her  ready  assenting. 

*'  Good-by !     Yuq  will  sing  for  me  often,"  she  urged. 

The  wild  passion  he  wrestled  with  rioted,  suriied. 
Through  his  heart.     With  a  masterful  effort  he  turned 
To  the  door. 

"  When  the  singer's  true  art  I  have  learned. 
You  may  hear  me.     Good-by !  " 

He  went  hastily  out 
Of  her  presence,  and  into  a  torment  of  doubt. 


i  1  t 


I  • 


GEEALDINE. 


213 


XXIV. 


But  a  day  or  two  later  a  brief  letter  came, 
Without  prefix  of  date,  or  appendix  of  name ; 
And  as  Percival  Trent  read  it,  flushing  and  eager, 
The  forces  of  passion  combined  to  beleaguer 
His  soul. 

"  You  have  been  here,"  the  letter  began : 
"  You  have  come  and  have  gone.   If  our  hearts  overran 
The  hard  limits  we  set  for  them,  flowing  together 
Like  parallel  rivers  in  storm-laden  weather. 
Are  we  to  be  blamed  ?    O  my  poet !  the  touch 
Of  your  lips  lingers  yet  upon  mine  ;  and,  if  much 
Of  my  feverish  longing  and  pain  they  reveal, 
You  who  wooed  them  to  speech  must  as  gently  conceal 
Your  displeasure.     I  never  can  bid  you  l^e  dumb 
Any  mr^re  ;  for  it  seems  to  me  now  that  the  sum 
Of  my  pain  is  your  silence.     ( long  so  to  hear 
The  dear  words  you  ouglit  never  to  speak,  that  I  fear 
I  am  foolish,  unwomanly  grown ;  and  I  crave 
For  the  freedom  to  echo  those  words,  as  a  slave 
Must  pine  after  the  freedom  forever  denied. 
As  I  see  you  far  over  the  gulf  yawning  wide 
And  unending  between  us,  I  reach  out  my  hands 


r 


214 


GERALDINE. 


And  I  call  to  you.     Fate  with  its  cruel  commands 
Would  compel  me  to  cease  ;  but  I  cannot.     I  cry 
Through  the  desolate  distance,  and  say,  '  By  and  by 
lie  will  hear  me  and  answer.'     You  make  no  reply. 
And  my  hope  like  a  willow  droops  downward,  and  weeps. 
I  am  learning  the  infinite  pity  that  sleeps 
In  the  bosom  of  God,  I  so  pity  mj^self. 
As  I  count  up  the  goods  that  I  have,  they  are  pelf 
But  the  poorest  compared  with  the  treasure  I  covet. 
I  see  it  just  out  of  my  reach  ;  and  I  love  it 
So  wildly,  and  long  with  such  longing  to  hold 
It  supremely  my  own,  that  my  ^^eart.  v/er-bold, 
Would  compel  the  possession  at  once  —  if  it  could. 


* '  O  my  friend  !  you  who  hold  by  the  true  and  the  good 
With  so  steady  a  hand,  you  must  come  to  my  need 
With  your  certain  uplifting.     I  hunger,  with  greed 
That  can  brook  no  denial,  for  life  that  is  strong 
In  the  truth,  and  that  steadily  sets  against  wrong 
The  unchangeable  features  of  duty.     You  only 
Can  lead  me  up  out  of  this  solitude  lonely 
In  which  now  I  wait,  by  temptation  beset. 
When  I  stronger  am  grown,  I  may  cease  to  regret, 
And  may  go,  with  a  face  that  is  calm  and  determined, 
Along  the  hard  road  where  they  march  who  are  ermined 
Of  soul  like  yourself ;  but  to-day  not  the  weakest 
Of  women,  among  the  most  timid  and  meekest, 
Is  weaker  than  I.     May  Heaven  pity  me  !     None 


GERALBINE. 


215 


Are  so  feebly  outstretching  their  hands  to  the  sun, 
While  they  sit  in  the  shadows,  and  shiver.     The  whole 
Of  my  being  is  but  a  complaint.     In  my  soul 
There  are  only  wild  throbbings  rebellious,  and  great 
Sobs  of  pain,  and  these  loud  cryings-out  against  fate.'* 


He  was  stirred  to  the  deep  of  his  nature,  and  wrote 
An  impulsive  reply :  — 

"  To  your  passionate  note 
My  heart  beats  a  response  that  the  flow  of  my  pen 
Can  but  coldly  interpret.     I  kiss  you  again, 
That  my  heart,  overrunning  my  lips,  may  betray 
To  y^ur  own,  throbbing  fervidly  under,  what  they 
Could  not  fitly  reveal,  though  endowed  with  the  spu'it 
Of  love  Pentecostal.     They  only  who  hear  it. 
Or  feel  it,  know  all  the  sweet  emphasis  hid 
In  love's  tender,  unsyllabled  speech.     If  you  bid 
Me  to  breathe  out  a  full  revelation,  I  never 
Can  do  it  in  words :  I  must  make  the  endeavor 
In  language  with  meaning  far  deeper. 

''My  friend, 
I  can  lead  you  in  worthiest  way  to  an  end 
That  is  worthiest,  only  as  steady  I  face 
My  hard  duty  apart  from  your  side.     In  the  grace 
Of  your  presence  'twere  easy  to  turn  from  the  heights 
I  must  climb,  and  to  find  in  the  sunny  delights 
Of  my  longing  the  gladness  I  crave.     I  could  flee 
From  the  path  I  must  follow,  and  hold  you  to  me 


i 


■«f^1 


216 


GERALBINE. 


11 


I  i 


In  possession  defiant  of  duty,  defiant 
Of  all  your  denial,  supremely  reliant 
On  need,  —  on  your  need  and  my  own.     To  resist 
The  pathetic  appeal  of  those  lips  I  have  kissed. 
Till  our  souls  came  together  ;  to  hearken,  and  hear 
Them  beseeching  my  help  in  a  cry  that  is  clear 
As  the  signal  of  love  is  forever,  and  stay 
In  the  distance  —  ah  !  this  is  the  trial  that  may 
Overmaster  my  manhood,  my  being,  at  length. 
If  I  ever  can  reach  you  my  hands  in  the  strength 
Of  uplifting  to  serve,  and  not  sacrifice  each 
With  its  weakness,  not  long  will  you  wait,  and  be- 
seech 
For  the  aid  I  can  render.     I  pity  your  need 
With  a  pity  unbounded,  that  can  but  proceed 
From  a  love  that  i^  boundless.     I  hear  the  appeals 
Of  your  heart  with,  a  throb  of  my  soul  that  reveals 
The  deep  pain  I  must  suffer,  the  yearnings  intense, 
And  the  buffetings  cruel.     My  way  is  as  dense 
With  perplexities  now  as  your  wilderness  long 
Has  been  lonely  and  sorrowful ;  in  it  the  song 
Of  sweet  faith  has  died  out  into  silence.     Too  stoutly 
Distrust  of  myself  is  asserted,  devoutly 
To  let  me  from  self  turn  away  to  the  might 
That  is  certain.     I  dare  not  kneel  down,  and  invite 
For  us  both  the  one  help  that  alone  can  avail, 
When  I  know  my  petition  must  falter  and  fail 
On  account  of  so  feeble  desire.     For  confess 


PR   ' 


GEBALBINE. 


217 


It  I  will :    I  would  rather  this  moment  possess 

The  great  love   that  you  give  me,  and  know  it  my 

own 
Undenying,  in  fullest  of  plenitude  shown, 
Than  to  pray  you  may  learn  its  withholding,  or  learn 
What  is  easier  far,  —  to  forget.     And  they  burn 
In  my  bosom,  these  words  that  might  hint  of  return 
I  would  make,  as  I  do  and  I  must ;  while  my  prayer 
For  denial  of  speech  would  go  out  on  the  air 
With  a  wish  that  itself  be  denied,  and  my  plea 
For  the  strength  to  forget  would  but  mockery  be 
Of  too  cherished  remembrances. 

"No:  on  the  reed 
Of  my  resolute  purpose  I  lean,  till  to  plead 
For  a  better  support  I  may  dare,  feeling  true 
To  the  want  I  shall  syllable,  pulsating  through 
My  petition  a  longing  sincere.     Very  tender 
Indeed  to  the  soul  that  in  perfect  surrender 
Of  wish  and  of  will  comes  to  him,  are  the  greetings 
Of  God ;  but  he  never  can  hush  the  wild  beatings 
Within  a  poor  heart  that  denyingly  holds 
To  its  pain.     All  my  love  your  strong  feeling  infolds ; 
And  as  vain  as  I  know  it,  as  wicked  as  vain, 
And  as  certain  of  sorrow,  so  sweet  is  the  pain, 
That  I  welcome  it.     Held  in  its  clinging  embraces, 
We  two  may  clasp  hands,  and  touch  hearts,  though  the 

spaces 
Of  infinite  distance  are  rolling  between." 


m 


218 


GERALDINE. 


¥'  ^\ 


While  be  still  ou  the  reed  of  his  purpose  would  lean, 
She  made  answer  to  answer  of  his  :  — 

' '  That  you  came 
When  I  called  you,  can  never  be  set  to  your  blame, 
Since  you  thought  your  response  a  denial  instead. 
To  my  hunger  and  longing  you  tenderly  said 
The  sweet  words  that  were  manna  to  me ;   and  they 

fed 
When  I  famished.     What  need  had  my  poor  heart  to 

hear 
Your  profession  of  love  ?    I  believe  that  the  ear 
Of  cold  Venus  de  Medici  yonder  would  glow 
Into  rose,  would  you  once  for  the  marble  let  flow 
Your  warm  current  of  masterful,  passionate  speech. 
There  is  only  one  utterance  now  that  can  reach. 
To  revive  it,  this  poor  fainting  soul  that  is  mine,  — 
The  assurance  that  still  you  do  love  me.     Some  sign 
I  must  have,  in  my  need,  of  that  love,  or  I  die. 
You  will  grant  it  hereafter  as  quick,  when  I  cry 
To  you  over  the  deeps  ? 

"  My  beloved,  I  try 
To  be  patient  and  silent  and  brave.     I  would  add 
Not  a  pang  to  your  struggle,  nor  sigh  to  your  sad 
But  heroic  endeavor.     Instead,  I  would  make 
A  glad  martyr  to-day  of  myself  for  your  sake, 
If  I  only  could  bring  you  content.     For  I  love 
You.     So  simple  a  thing  to  declare,  but,  above 
All  assertion,  so  forceful  and  swo  '' !    The  mild  passion 


III 


GEllALDINE. 


219 


)n 


Of  maidens  at  school  in  as  eloquent  fashion 

Might  syllables  take  ;  bui  this  love  that  I  feel 

Is  as  truer  than  that  as  the  ring  of  white  steel 

Is  more  vibrant  than  lead.   'Tis  a  passion  grown  stronger 

And  deeper,  and  richer  and  sweeter,  the  longer 

It  slumbered  :  awakened,  it  holds  me,  and  sways 

Me  at  will.     In  the  glow  of  those  glad  summer  days 

When  it  thrilled  me  at  first,  I  half  fancied  'twould  seem, 

When  we  parted,  as  only  a  midsummer  dream  : 

In  this  sombre  November  the  warmth  of  its  flushes 

I  feel,  as  the  maiden  can  feel  her  first  blushes 

At  flattery  paid  ;  and  so  warmly  it  gladdens  me 

Now  with  its  color  and  life,  that  it  saddens  me 

Even  to  tears. 

"  Foolish  tears  !     As  they  fall 
Down  my  face,  I  am  glad  that  hereafter  not  all 
Of  my  bitterest  weeping  can  rob  it  of  sweetness 
Your  kisses  have  left ;  and  my  very  unmeetness 
For  holy  caresses  so  tender  and  pure 
Can  but  make  them  in  sanctified  blessing  endure. 
O  my  friend  !  my  beloved !  so  close  have  I  been 
To  the  worst  in  the  world,  that  the  shadow  of  sin 
Hovers  grimly  about  me  to  frighten  and  grieve  me. 
Not  mine  was  the  fault ;  and,  my  darling,  believe  me, 
The  sin  was  no  sin  of  intent,  if  to  some 
Like  a  sin  it  ap     ared. 

"  By  and  by  you  will  come 
To  my  love  and  my  need,  as  it  seems  to  you  best, 


.1 


■*§■ 


220 


GEBALDINE. 


With  your  love  and  your  plenty.     You  cannot  have 

guessed 
From  these  hints,  my  heart's  heart,  how  I  hunger  and 

long 
For  your  comforting  presence  and  cheer,  or  how  strong 
Is  the  love  I  have  weakly  declared.     With  your  face 
Looking  into  my  own,  tmd  your  loving  embrace 
Giving  courage  and  strength,  I  could  better  translate 
A  brief  page  of  love's  living  epistle.     Sweet  fate 
That  will  bring  me  some  blessedest  glimpses  of  you ! 
For  I  love  you !     And  this  is  my  only  adieu." 


GERALLINE. 


221 


XXV. 


I'l 


Early  winter  went  by.     It  was  fortunate,  tnily, 

That  Trent  was  so  much  in  demand  ;  for  unruly, 

Impulsive  desire  must  have  led  him  astray 

From  his  purpose  so  true,  but  for  need  to  obey 

The  imperative  calls  of  the  public,     liy  night 

He  would  speak  to  the  crowds  ;  and  by  day  he  would  write 

For  still  wider  persuasion  in  print.     Had  they  known 

Who  so  eagerly  heard  him,  how  often  a  moan 

Of  disquiet  was  hid  by  the  utterance  strong 

That  so  quieted  them,  or  how  frequent  the  wrong 

He  was  fighting  within  bore  him  down,  while  he  wielded 

His  blows  on  the  wrong  from  without,  they'd  have 

yielded 
Their  sympathy  freely  as  yielding  their  praise. 
There  were  hours  when  he  rose  like  a  victor,  and  days 
When  he  sank  in  the  dust  of  defeat.  There  were  seasons 
When  Duty  made  plain  all  her  eloquent  reasons 
For  holding  him  firm  to  his  wearying  course  ; 
There  were  times  when  his  passion  took  terrible  force. 
And  so  bitterly  pressed  him,  so  sharply  assailed  him, 
That  faith  in  its  feebleness  faltert  ^  uad  tailed  him. 
And  night  swept  liim  into  its  pitiless  gloom. 


IB-  .S 


222 


GEIlALDINE. 


It  may  be  ho  was  morbid  by  nature.     Th(!  bloom 
Of  all  beautiful  things,  it  is  certain,  bore  fruit 
In  his  thought ;  and  he  wisely  and  kindly  was  mute, 
If  but  ashes  of  apples  he  frequently  tasted 
Instead,  or  but  seldom  unhappily  hasted 
To  tell  of  their  bitterness. 

Men  are  too  free 
With  complaining  recitals.     Far  better  'twould  be 
For  us  all,  if  the  troubles  that  fret  and  annoy 
Were  but  hidden  away  in  a  privacy  coy, 
And  not  prated  about  to  our  fellows.     Far  better 
To  make  them  for  sunshiny  gladness  our  debtor, 
Than  beg  of  their  sympathy  often,  and  take 
Of  its  costly  bestowal  at  will,  when  the  ache 
Of  their  life  may  be  deeper  than  ours.     If  we  urge 
Our  own  woe  on  their  ears,  and  go  wailing  a  dirge 
Over  happiness  fled,  we  shall  hear  enough  minor 
From  them  and  ourselves  to  forget  all  the  finer 
And  happier  music  of  hearts. 

When  he  went 
For  another  day's  tarry  at  Rivermet,  Trent 
Was  subdued  in  demeanor,  and  notably  carried 
Himself  with  restraint ;  but  he  partially  parried 
His  Geraldine's  questioning  look.     He  was  weaker 
Than  wont,  he  explained.     The  hard  strain  on  a  speaker 
Had  worn  him  uncommonly.     Seldom  he  slept 
Until  nigh  to  the  morning.     His  labor  had  kept 
Him  from  adequate  rest  through  the  day ;  he  Rad  used 


GEUALDINE. 


223 


Of  hi3  vital  resources  too  freely,  abused 

The  great  blessing  of  health,  and  must  pay  for  it  dear 

In  depression  and  dulness. 

She  gave  him  the  cheer 
Of  her  outflowing  love,  though  it  seemed  to  her  heart 
An  impassable  wall  had  arisen  to  part 
Them  still  further.     She  knew  by  some  keen  intuition, 
That  once  he  would  come  on  his  lover's  glad  mission 
Of  love  with  a  happier  feeling,  and  say 
Sweeter  words  than  she  now  must  expect.     And  the  day 
For  distrusting  might  come  to  her  soon !     With  the 

dread 
Of  its  darkness  upon  her,  she  faintingly  fled 
To  her  Father,  and  unto  his  pity  she  cried 
For  the  strcr^^^  ^^^^  would  need. 

When  she,  troubled,  replied 
To  the  honest  complaining  of  Trent,  though  evasive 
As  honest,  she  urged  him  with  feeling  persuasive 
To  seek  a  long  rest  amid  scenes  that  were  new. 


■  i 


iaker 


ised 


"  Put  an  ocean  of  green,  or  an  ocean  of  blue, 
Between  work  and  yourself,"  she  suggested.   "  Go  over 
The  billowy  prairies,  or  turn  again  rover 
By  sea,  and  get  hearty  and  happy  and  strong." 

"But  the  time  of  my  absence  might  seem  to  you 

long ; 
And  next  summer,  remember,  we  were  to  be  wed. ' ' 


(If 

rial 


224 


GERALDINE. 


I 


"  So  you  planned  it,  I  know,"  hesitating  she  said  ; 
*'  But  it  may  be  God  means  us  to  wait.     I  have  prayed 
That  our  marriage  may  be  in  some  manner  delayed, 
If  for  any  good  reason  it  should  not  take  place 
As  we  fixed."     And  the  serious  look  on  her  face 
Told  how  earnest  she  was.    "  When  the  winter  is  ended, 
The  wealth  of  your  life  will  have  been  so  expended, 
You'll  need  a  whole  summer  of  rest  to  regain 
The  great  loss.     Go  away.     If  it  seem  to  be  plain 
When  the  late  summer  comes,  that  our  wedding  should 

wait 
But  your  presence,  no  distance  can  be  to  you  great 
That  you  journey  on  errand  so  glad  ;  "  blushing  now 
At  her  words,  as  she  uttered  them  shyly. 

"I  bow 
To  your  bitter  decree,"  he  responded,  not  daiing 
To  trust  a  more  serious  answer.     "  The  faring 
Of  bold  pioneers  in  the  West  has  invited 
The  vagabond  in  me  since  youth.     I  have  slighted 
The  call  every  year :  now  I'll  heed  it,  and  go 
To  the  region  of  sunset  so  soon  as  the  snow 
Shall  have  vanished.    But  trust  me  to  come  to  you  soon 
When  you  freely  will  give  me  the  coveted  boon 
Of  yourself." 

"  And  I  freely  will  do  it  when  truly 
It  seems  to  be  best ;  yet  I  would  not  unduly 
Make  haste.     We  must  try  to  be  certain,  and  take 
Every  step  as  the  Master  may  lovingly  make 


I 
I 


s^     m 


GERALDINE. 


225 


The  way  clear.     He  will  show  us  his  path  for  our  feet 
If  we  ask  him." 

"  Your  faith  is  as  certain  and  sweet 
As  my  own  is  uncertain  and  vapid  too  often. 
'T would  light  up  the  gloomiest  way,  and  would  soften 
The  hardest  and  ruggedest  path.     Do  you  never 
Have  doubts  of  the  Master  ?  —  of  all  your  endeavor 
To  touch  him  for  healing  of  soul,  when  you  press 
To  his  side  in  despair  of  aught  else?  " 

' '  I  were  less 
A  weak  woman,  and  more  like  a  saint,  could  I  hold 
To  my  faith  without  doubting  forever.     As  bold 
As  was  Peter,  he  sank  in  the  wave  when  he  walked 
To  his  Lord  ;  and  ray  weakness  has  bitterly  mocked 
Me  at  times  when  I  should  have  been  strong.    We  must 

doubt, 
I  suppose,  being  human  ;  and  heartsick,  without 
Any  help  of  ourselves,  we  too  often  must  stem 
The  thick  crowd  of  our  doubts  and  our  fears,  ere  the  hem 
Of  the  Healer's  soft  garment  we  touch." 

"And  you  feel 
That  the  Master  walks  always  near  by,  and  will  heal, 
If  you  press  through  the  throng  to  his  side  ?    Though 

unseen, 
You  are  sure  he  is  there?  " 

"  There  are  times  when  between 
Him  and  me  I  can  see  only  blackness  ;  but  still 
I  believe  I  shall  find  him  through  doing  his  will ; 


fc 


•'f| 


226 


GERALDINE. 


And  he  never  is  lost.     It  is  T  who  have  strayed 
From  the  way  that  he  journeys.     I  seek  him,  afraid, 
Till  I  hear  his  quick  question,  '  Who  touched  me  ? '  and 

then 
I  am  glad." 

Far  let;s  tender  and  reverent  men 
Would  have  thrilled  to  he c  thought  and  her  tone  sym- 
pathetic, 
And  smothered  in  silence  all  questions  heretic 
That  might  have  been  syllabled. 

"  Faith  is  magnetic 
As  love,  when  it  speaks  from  a  heart  beating  free 
With  the  healthiest  life  ;  and  your  faith  upon  me 
Is  electric.     I  feel  it  more  keenly,  indeed. 
Than  I  feel  my  own  faith  from  within.    When  my  need 
Is  the  greatest,  I  wonder  if  once  I  believed, 
Or  made  pretence  of  trust.*' 

She  was  troubled  and  grieved 
At  his  words. 

"  You  are  living,  it  may  be,  too  mainly 
In  self,  are  depending  too  much  and  too  vainly 
On  strength  of  your  own,  to  be  sure  of  the  way. 
Or  of  light  in  the  dark.     We  must  serve  him  to-day 
With  our  might,  when  the  strongest  we  feel,  Tvould  we 

know 
The  Lord's  help  in  our  weakness.     The  farther  we  go 
Independent  of  him,  in  an  idle  belief 
In  ourselves,  the  more  certain  some  brambles  of  grief 


GERALBINE. 


227 


Will  be  found  in  our  pathway  to  prick  us,  the  more 
Is  it  sure  that  our  questions  will  trouble  us  sore. 
It  is  easy  to  doubt,"  a  quick  thrill  running  through 
Iler  brief  words  as  she  uttered  them.    "  Men  who,  like 

you, 
Are  endowed  with  large  manhood  and  generous  life. 
Have  the  amplest  endowment  for  doubting.     The  strife 
Of  unfaith  and  belief  must  oft  carry  them  far 
From  the  face  and  the  voice  of  the  Master.     They  are 
To  be  envied  for  strength,  to  be  pitied  for  weakness. 
Their  manliness  strong  and  assertive  the  meekness 
Of  faith  overcomes  ;  and  a  faith  that  is  proud 
Of  the  manhood  that  holds  it  will  some  time  be  bowed 
To  the  dust." 

"  If  I  ever  have  foolishly  classed 
My  weak  self  with   the  strong,  the   brief   season   is 

passed," 
He  responded  half  bitterly.     "  Few  are  so  weak, 
And  so  conscious  of  weakness,  as  I.     But  I  seek 
The  great  Fountain  of  strength  without  finding,  and 

dwell 
Weary  days  in  a  desert  where  flows  but  a  well 
Of  deep  bitterness  ever,  and  drink  till  I  thirst 
As  do  they  who  are  famishing  utterly.     Cursed 
By  the  keenest  of  longings  for  peace  and  sweet  quiet 
Of  soul,  I  am  held  where  the  tumult  and  riot 
Are  greatest,  till  often  I  sigh  for  tlie  rest 
Of  that  sleep  never  ending." 


^ 


I,'  ■' 


ill 


228 


GERALDINE. 


She  trembled,  and  pressed 
Back  the  tears  that  her  sympathy  quick  could  have  shed. 


*'  But  you  always  are  out  of  your  desert-place  led, 

When  at  last  you  are  willing  to  follow  the  leading 

Of  God,  are  you  not?    Our  most  pitiful  pleading 

Is  vain,  if  we  make  it  while  wickedly  clinging 

To  ways  that  we  ought  to  forsake.     The  sweet  bringing 

Of  peace  to  our  souls  is  along  the  hard  road 

Of  some  duty  we  would  not  perform."     And  there 

glowed 
In  her  face  the  glad  light  of  a  full  consecration. 


*'  Perhaps  if  we  knew  not  some  great  desolation 
Of  God,"  he  rejoined,  "  we  should  never  feel  sure 
Of  his  fatherhood ;  and,  if  we  cannot  endure 
To  be  fatherless  so  for  a  little,  how  could 
We  be  orphaned  forever  ?    Believing  is  good 
That  will  bring  an  occasional  glimpse  of  his  face, 
To  make  certain  he  is.     I  am  glad  of  the  grace 
Of  my  faith,  that  at  times  can  believe  so  completely, 
And  yours  that  so  seldom  can  doubt,  as  they  sweetly 
Make  better  my  life." 

"  But  your  faith  may  be  fervent 
And  certain  as  mine,  if  you  go  as  the  servant 
Each  day  of  a  Master  most  loving,  who  cares 
But  to  bless  you  in  service,"  she  said.     Uriawares 
She  was  blending  rebuke  with  her  words  of  appeal ; 


'II 


GERALBINE. 


229 


Yet  no  chiding  of  hers  could  be  harsh.    "  You  must  feel 
In  your  trouble  and  doubt,  that  you  have  not  in  all 

things 
Lent  willing  obedience.     Out  of  the  small  things 
Of  selfish  idolatry  oftenest  grow 
The  great  forests  of  doubt,  into  which  we  may  go. 
Beyond  sunlight  and  shadow,  far  into  the  night.'* 


u 


But  we  always  come  out  into  morning  and  light?  " 


* '  You  and  I,  let  us  hope. ' '   And  she  smiled  rather  sadly. 
"  Some  souls  there  may  be  who  go  onward  so  madly 
Intent  on  their  own  wicked  wills,  that  they  sink 
In  abysses  we  miss,  and  are  lost.     When  I  think 
Of  their  pitiful  madness,  their  longing  distress 
In  the  dark,  I  could  weep  ;  for  the  way  that  we  press 
Is  a  hard  enough  way  at  the  best.     You  and  I, 
When  it  troubles  us  most,  may  find  comforting  nigh ; 
But  these  wayfaring  souls,  without  help  or  a  hope, 
Can  but  wearily  on  in  the  wilderness  grope 
Till  the  end." 

So  they  talked  of  the  holiest  things 
Of  the  heart.    So  he  drank  from  the  up-welling  springs 
Of  her  beautiful  faith,  till  his  spirit  grew  stronger. 
He  left  her  sweet  patience  at  length,  but  no  longer, 
As  to  it  he  came,  full  of  bitter  unrest. 
The  old  song  of  belief  that  had  slept  in  his  breast 
Woke  to  music  again  in  a  strain  that  was  finer  . 


,rpT-- 


230 


GEBALBINE. 


Irlt! 


And  sweeter  than  once  for  the  tremulous  minor 

That   thrilled    it.      Complaint  with  new  blessedness 

^sharing, 
He  soberly  sang  by  the  way  of 

• 

WAYFAEING. 

The  way  is  long,  O  Lord,  that  leads 

To  cooling  springs  and  fragrant  meads: 

I  weary  of  its  weary  length; 

I  lose  all  heart  and  hope  and  strength, 

As  here  I  halt  my  tired  feet 

And  pray  for  rest  so  far,  so  sweet. 

I  thank  thee  for  a  halting-place 
Made  glad  by  tliine  own  smiling  f'vce ; 
I  thank  thee  that  the  dusty  way 
Thy  footsteps  knoweth  day  by  day; 
I  thank  thee  that  some  path  there  be  . 
From  pain  and  care  to  peace  and  thee.  • 

Its  rugged  steeps  I  would  not  mind, 
If,  daily  climbing,  I  could  find 
Secure  repose  at  day's  decline 
A  little  nearer  thee  and  thine ; 
If  always  from  the  mountain-peaks 
My  faith  could  see  the  land  it  seeks. 

But  when  through  gloomy  vales  I  go. 
That  no  glad  sunshine  ever  know; 
When  even  thy  dear  presence  seems 
A  far-off  thing  of  doubt  and  dreams,  — 
Forgive  me.  Lord,  if  then  I  faint. 
And  murmur  oft,  and  make  complaint. 


GERALBINE, 

I  know  my  times  are  in  thy  hand; 

I  long  for  light  to  understand 

How  thou  canst  for  each  pilgrim  care, 

How  thou  canst  hear  each  pleading  prayer, 

How  unto  thee  each  soul  is  known 

As  if  it  walked  the  world  alone. 

And  some  time  I  may  comprehend. 
The  way  is  long;  but  at  its  end 
A  clearer  vision  waits  the  sight. 
In  thy  dear  garden  of  delight, 
Wayfaring  done,  let  me  abide 
Where  never  falls  an  eventide. 


231 


"'  'cyr^ 


232 


GEBALDINE, 


XXVI. 

It  was  later  by  less  than  a  fortnight,  tha:  Trent 

Gave  a  lecture  one  night  in  the  village  of  Ghent. 

He  had  firmly  decided  he  would  not  again 

Meet  his  friend,  Mrs.  Lee  ;  but  each  purpose  of  men 

Is  uncertain  of  issue.     One  only  of  all 

The  great  number  of  faces  that  crowded  the  hall 

Was  familiar,  and  that  one  —  was  hers.    As  he  caught 

Her  first  answering  look,  a  brief  moment  he  fought 

With  his  passion  for  mastery  ;  then  with  the  art 

Of  his  utterance  quickly  he  moved  every  heart 

To  responses  of  sympathy. 

Who  can  define 
What  is  eloquence?    Is  it  some  thought  half  divine 
And  all  noble  ?    Or  is  it  the  audible  sign 
Of  some  feeling  within  that  is  striving  to  leap 
Into  being  of  speech  ?    Is  true  eloquence  deep 
As  the  orator's  soul,  and  as  deep  as  the  hearer's 
He  touches?    Indeed,  is  it  true  that  he  mirrors 
Some  innermost  thought  of  our  own,  unexpressed 
Hitherto,  and  unformed,  when  we  feel  in  our  breast 
The  pulsations  of  pleasure  that  syllables  seek 
Without  finding  ?    Is  eloquence  strength  for  the  weak 


il 


GERALBINE. 


233 


In  expression,  and  lips  for  the  dumb,  who  may  speak 
Through  the  wonr^erful  words  of  another? 

The  lecture 
Was  over  at  last,  and  the  ready  conjecture 
Of  Trent  became  truth.     Mrs.  Lee  was  with  friends 
In  the  place  on  a  visit. 

"  The  time  comprehends 
A  surprise  the  most  happy  for  me  in  thus  hearing 
And  meeting  you  now,"  she  remarked  ;  and,  appearing 
Unmoved  in  demeanor  as  he  did,  she  asked 
Him  to  go  with  her  friends  to  their  home. 

If  they  masked 
Every  passionate  feeling  in  plain  commonplace  ; 
If  he  sat  amid  strangers,  and  looked  in  her  face 
As  he  looked  into  theirs,  with  the  courteo-     grace 
Of  attentiveness  only  to  speech  that  was  clever 
Or  trite  as  it  chanced,  —  it  may  be  his  endeavor 
Was  small ;  for  his  passion  was  passive.     He  curbed 
It  so  stoutly  and  well,  that  it  little  disturbed 
His  composure  at  present.    To-morrow  ?   What  matter 
Defeats  yet  to  come,  if  to-day  only  flatter 
With  victory  ? 

Leaving  them  all  in  an  hour, 
With  placid  serenity  pasbiug  for  power 
Over  self,  he  went  out  to  his  solitude  grim 
With  its  weakness  defiant  of  strength.     When  to  him, 
But  a  day  or  two  later,  this  brief  message  came. 
In  his  breast  he  could  feel  the  fierce  breathings  of  flame  : 


234 


GEEALDINE. 


;ii  .  :. 


*'  O  my  friend !  are  we  always  and  always  like  this 

To  go  on?     Is  a  touch  of  your  hand,  or  a  kiss 

Of  your  lips,  to  be  all  I  can  ever  have  granted 

Of  you?    You  could  banish  the  ghost  that  has  haunted 

Me  long.     You  could  lift  me  up  into  the  sun 

From  these  shivering  shadows. 

"  How  much  you  have  done 
For  me  now  I  can  never  reveal.     As  your  debtor 
I  ever  must  be,  unless  loving  you  better 
Than  even  I  dare  to  confess  is  a  payment 
Acceptable.     Ah !  when  I  sleep  in  the  raiment 
Of  death,  will  they  look  in  my  face,  comprehending^ 
How  long  and  how  soi^ly  1  needed  befriending 
That  God  only  gives  through  his  image  ?  —  the  soul 
Of  a  man's  loving  nature,  to  guide  and  control 
My  weak  waywardness  ?  —  love  that  should  hold  my  be- 
havior 
In  line  with  its  purity  true,  be  my  savior 
From  all  that  could  touch  me  to  hurt  or  assoil, 
In  a  merciful  tenderness  pour  the  sweet  oil 
Of  its  gladness  on  life's  troubled  waters,  infold 
All  my  faults  in  its  mantle  of  oharity,  hold 
Me  apart  in  its  own  blessed  heaven  ? 

"  I  know, 
Could  you  stand  by  me,  darling,  (God  grant  it  be  so  !) 
When  at  last  I  am  but  a  white  silence,  you'd  hear 
A  new  message  to  you  through  the  calm  atmosphere 
Round  about  me.   My  lips  might  not  move  ;  but  as  clear 


i 


GERALDINE. 


235 


As  the  clearest  articulate  speech  they  would  tell 

Of  the   hunger  that  starved  me  to  death.     And  so 

well 
Would  you  then  comprehend  all  the  longing  and  need 
I  had  suffered,  I  think  you  would  pitying  plead 
For  the  seal  of  that  silence  in  mercy  to  break, 
That  I  might  not  eternally  want.     For  your  sake. 
My  belovtid,  to  tenderest  speech  I  would  come. 
Though  the  highest  archangel  might  bid  me  be  dumb ; 
Out  of  pitiful  rest  the  white  silence  would  rise. 
And  beguile  you  with  kisses,  and  quiet  the  cries 
Of  your  heart  for  the  loss  of  my  love,  and  the  grave 
Would  in  mercy  release  me  to  you. 

"  But  a  slave 
To  the  hardest  taskmaster  —  to  Life  —  should  not  think 
How  much  kinder  a  master  might  Death  be.     I  drink 
Of  the  bitterest  draughts  every  day,  then  I  dip 
My  cup  deep  in  the  well  of  your  love,  and  I  sip 
Till  its  sweetness  has  gladdened  me.     Always  athirst 
And  an  hungered  I  am.     My  one  darling  !  the  worst 
Of  the  Magdalenes  dare  to  come  near  to  the  Christ ; 
And  her  faith,  that  was  loving  the  sweetest,  sufficed 
To  redeem  her  from  sin.     If  no  virtue  were  mine 
But  to  love  you,  I  fancy  that  this  would  incline 
The  one  Master  to  pity  me.     Wicked  as  one 
Who  has  never  oeen  pardoned,  or  ne'er  has  begun 
To  be  penitent,  still  I  could  love  you  no  more, 
Were  I  good  as  the  angels  of  God.'* 


23G 


GEUALBINE. 


As  before, 
When  she  called  to  him  thus  in  her  passionate  speech. 
He  responded,  as  moved  by  it  strongly. 

"  You  teach 
The  deep  meanings  of  words,"  he  made  answer.    "  You 

tell  me 
Of  love  far  beyond  my  belief ;  you  compel  me 
To  marvel  that  such  a  great  love  can  be  given 
To  me.    And  for  what  ?     O  my  friend !  I  have  striven 
To  solve  the  hard  problem,  have  striven  to  still 
The  strong,  masterful  throbs  of  my  heart ;  but  the  will 
Is  as  weak  as  the  reason.     Why  love  should  lay  hold 
Of  my  being  with  mastery  cruel  as  bold. 
Is  as  dark  and  as  blind  as  the  will  to  resist  it 
Is  feeble.     To-day  I  should  hardly  enlist  it, 
If  help  were  at  hand  that  could  victory  give 
To  my  feeble  resistance.     To-day  I  would  live 
In  this  marvellous  love  and  the  blessing  it  brings  mc. 


'*  The  honeycomb  shelters  the  bee  that  quick  stings  me. 
I  taste  of  the  sweets  of  your  love  but  to  feel 
The  sharp  pain  that  its  riches  of  blessing  conceal. 
You  can  never  be  mine.     We  are  parted  as  much 
As  if  never  I  felt  the  soft  lingering  touch 
Of  your  kisses,  —  are  parted  as  certain  and  wide 
As  the  east  and  the  west.     If  you  hungered  and  died 
In  my  absence,  I  could  not  come  close  to  your  side 
In  the  nearness  of  love's  divine  freedom  to  weep. 


GEUALIJINE. 


237 


Were  I  sleeping  to-day  the  unausvveriug  sleep 

Of  the  grave,  you  must  stand  in  the  distance,  and  say 

But  a  tearless  farewell. 

"  I  am  going  away 
When  the  buds  begin  bursting.     Your  duty  and  mine 
Both  demand  that  I  should.     We  must  follow  the  line 
Of  our  separate  fates.     What  your  duty  may  be 
I  can  only  imagine  :  my  own  is  to  me 
As  unyielding  as  God.     It  is  holding  me  now 
With  its  fingers  of  steel,  and  in  calmness  I  bow  — 
Though  in  merely  the  fiction,  the  semblance,  of  loyalty, 
Need  not  be  sold  —  to  its  rigorous  royalty. 
Still,  while  I  walk  in  the  way  that  it  urges 
Me  on,  I  can  feel  the  impetuous  surges 
Of  passion  within  me  responding  to  yours  ; 
I  can  longing  look  back  on  your  face  as  it  lures 
My  return.     Set  it  steadily  forward,  nor  let 
It  look  backward  to  me  with  its  haunting  regret. 
Let  us  walk  the  two  ways  that  lead  farther  apart, 
As  if  love  were  a  lie,  and  we  lived  without  heart. 


"  Am  I  bitter  and  cruel?    Forgive  me,  and  know 
That  I  write  out  of  burning  unrest. 

"I  shall  go 
To  the  West  in  a  month,  to  find  peace,  if  I  can. 
On  its  plains  and  its  mountains.     The  rigorous  ban 
Of  my  duty  forbids  me  to  see  you  again 
Before  going.     I  think  if  the  strongest  of  men 


IT 


II 


238 


GEllALBINE. 


"Were  to  stand  at  your  side,  with  his  pui^)ose  as  true 
To  another  as  purpose  that  God  ever  knew, 
He  would  falter,  and  love  you,  and  linger  —  unless 
You  compelled  him  to  leave.     So  in  safety  I  press 
The  last  passionate  kiss  on  your  beautiful  face 
But  in  fancy :  I  hold  you  to  me  through  the  space 
That  divides  us,  but  dare  not  in  parting  come  near ; 
And  I  speak  idle  words  could  youi'  heart  only  hear 
You  would  echo  them  back  with  such  winningness,  I 
Should  wait  near  you  to  listen  forever.     Good-by !  " 


She  began  her  reply  with  the  utterance  strong 
Of  a  passionate  nature  unmastered. 

"Hong 
For  your  presence  and  cheer  with  a  longing  that  leaps 
Every  barrier  now,  and  compels  it ;  that  keeps 
You  beside  me  wherever  you  go.     I  shall  cling 
To  3^our  hand,  though  you  journey  as  far  as  the  spring 
Is  from  winter,  and  climb  to  the  uttermost  heights 
Of  the  earth  ;  for  I  hold  as  the  crown  of  delights 
In  all  good  that  is  fruitage  of  love,  the  keen  sense 
Of  a  bodily  presence  in  absence  —  the  tense 
That  takes  hold  of  my  yesterday's  doing  and  being, 
And  keeps  it  material  still  to  my  seeing 
To-day.     You  made  yesterday  worth  such  a  keeping 
To  me.     When  you  entered  my  life,  all  its  weeping 
To  smiles  of  thanksgiving  and  gladness  was  turned. 
I  have  learned  the  true  meaning  of  life  :  I  have  learned 


GERALDINE. 


239 


The  sublimest  of  charity.     Out  of  the  wild 
Of  my  desert  so  dreary,  your  love  has  beguiled 
Me  to  come  ;  but  alas  for  the  many  who  faint 
On  the  blistering  sands,  and  whose  feeble  complaint 
Is  not  heard  !     And  alas  for  the  souls  that  are  lost, 
Ere  the  desert  so  barren  and  burning  is  crossed ! 


"  My  belovi^d  !  you  cannot  take  leave  of  me  here. 

If  our  paths  run  ai,  ,rt,  you  are  always  as  near 

As  affection  can  bring  you  ;  so  near,  that  I  share 

In  your  nobleness,  feel  the  uplift  of  the  air 

That  you  breathe,  am  made  better  and  truer  by  you. 

It  were  folly  to  bid  you  a  mocking  adieu 

When  I  know  you  must  stay  by  my  side  in  the  spirit, 

If  not  in  the  flesh.     And  my  soul  needs  you  near  it 

So  bitterly  of t^a  !     So  often  it  cries 

For  the  aid  you  can  render,  and  waits  the  replies 

Of  your  heart  with  so  weary  a  waiting,  I  think 

It  would  kill  me,  if  now  you  should  utterly  sink 

From  my  sight  into  echoless  silence. 

' '  And  yet, 
Though  my  face  may  look  back  with  its  hauntiiig  regret 
That  will  haunt  it  forever,  I  see  but  a  dim 
And  a  shadow-like  semblance  or  spectre  of  him 
Whom  so  madly  I  love.     The  true  self  that  I  need 
With  such  hunger  of  needing  will  swiftly  recede 
Out  of  reach.     And  I  feel  so  defrauded  !     The  whole 
Of  my  womanhood  owns  you  its  master.     My  soul, 


240 


GEBALBINE. 


Being  cheated  of  you,  like  a  slave  in  distress 
Can  but  moan  by  the  way,  with  no  bounty  to  bless 
It,  and  bring  it  again  to  the  face  of  its  lord. 
Without  you  I  am  always  and  only  the  ward 
Of  tyrannical  want,  and  my  poverty  begs 
j7or  some  opiate  cup  I  may  drain  to  the  dregs. 
And  forget  the  great  wealth  I  have  missed. 

"Am  I  writing 
Unreason?    Demented,  am  I  but  inditing 
Vagaries  absurd,  as  the  contrary  feelings 
Of  love  I  express  in  this  manner  ?     Revealings 
Thus  opposite  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  be  made 
The  same  moment. 

"  If  wild  I  may  be,  I  have  weighed 
The  hard  problem  before  us,  with  reason  that  held 
Me  above  the  great  hunger  of  love,  and  compelled 
Me  to  heed.     You  have  work  in  the  world,  and  I  will 
Not  make  doing  it  harder.     To-day  I  would  still 
Every  longing  of  mine,  but  to  spare  you  a  pang 
Of  disquiet.     The  hope  and  the  faith  that  you  sang 
Ere  you  saw  me  must  yet  in  your  singing  abide. 
Or  I  shall  not  forget  that  I  ought  to  have  died 
Before  hearing  and  seeing  you.     O  my  heart's  heart ! 
Let  me  feel  your  strong  throbbing  again  ere  we  part ; 
Let  it  teach  me  the  courage  of  faith  and  of  hope. 
As  along  in  the  desert  I  desolate  grope. 
You  will  pardon  the  prayer  ?    I'm  not  practised  at  pray- 
ing, 


T 
B( 


GERALDINE. 


241 


And  chiefly,  I  fear,  have  the  habit  of  saying 
My  prayers  unto  you*. 

"  *  God  be  with  you ! '  I  say 
Now  to  Mm.     For  your  sake  I  can  fervently  pray. 
If  I  may  not  or  dare  not  look  God  in  the  face 
For  myself.     And  I  pray  that  some  heuven-sent  grace 
May  bedew  you  with  patience  wherever  you  go. 
We  have  tested  life  deep  enough,  darling,  to  know 
That  victorious  living  is  better  and  truer 
Than  happiness.     May  you  the  battle  endure 
Like  a  victor,  and  win,  if  not  happiness,  peace ! 
And  remember,  beloved,  T  never  shall  cease 
To  aspire  for  you,  hope  for  you,  love  you,  be  proud 
Of  your  many  successes,  as  if  in  the  crowd 
Of  the  world  I  alone  had  the  right.     And  who  ought 
To  be  prouder  than  I  ?    In  my  future,  the  thought 
That  I  once  was  your  friend,  though  forgotten  I  be. 
Will  seem  sweet  as  another's  remembrance  to  me. 
I  would  rather  have  had  my  brief  portion  of  you 
Than  be  held  in  possession  most  perfect  and  true, 
For  a  lifetime,  of  ill  other  men.     I  am  weak 
With  the  passionate  gladness  that  flows  to  my  cheek 
As  you  kiss  me  farewell.     I  am  faint  with  the  pain 
That  is  flooding  my  heart  as  I  call  you  in  vain 
Through  the  widening  distance.     The  mist  in  my  eyes 
Becomes  heavy,  and  stifles  my  pitiful  cries." 


■  ii 


242 


GEBALDINE. 


xxvn. 


i 


ii  I 


Trent  was  true  to  his  purpose.     He  went  to  the  West 
Without  stopping  to  see  Mrs.  Lee.     To  the  test 
Of  her  pre'jence  he  would  not,  he  dare  not,  again 
Bring  himself. 

And  his  leave-takings  troubled  him  when 
He  saw  Geraldine  last.    A  great  tenderness  thrilled 
Through  her  loving  good-bys.      He  could  easy  have 

willed 
To  remain  with  her  now,  and  possess  her  without 
Any  waiting  ;  for  over  him  brooded  a  doubt 
That  he  could  not  have  set  into  speech,  —  an  impression, 
That,  leaving  her  thus,  he  was  putting  possession 
Beyond  him  forever.     Her  words  of  farewell 
Were  so  solemnly  tender  and  sweet,  that  they  fell 
Like  a  sad  prophecy  on  his  ears. 

He  had  penned 
A  long  letter  to  Isabel,  making  amend 
For  refusing  the  cry  of  her  heart,  by  replying 
In  echoes  as  passionate.     Firmly  denying 
Himself  the  great  gladness  of  holding  lier  yet 
Once  again  to  his  breast,  his  quick  pen  would  not  let 
Him  keep  silent  completely.    It  revelled  in  words 


GERALDINE. 


243 


That  to  listening  of  love  were  as  music  of  birds  ; 
And  it  told  as  with  tears  of  his  frequent  unrest, 
Of  the  longing  and  fears  that  his  being  possessed. 

You  will  say  he  was  weak.     Let  it  pass  to  his  credit 
That  he  had  discerned  the  same  truth,  and  had  said  it 
With  bitter  reproaches  of  self.     And,  beside, 
Let  it  temper  your  judgment  that  he  had  denied 
A  temptation  the  greatest,  —  to  go  to  her,  give 
To  the  winds  every  promise  and  duty,  and  live 
On  her  riches  of  love.     He  was  weak,  and  he  knew  it : 
His  weakness  had  caused  him  too  often  to  rue  it, 
To  leave  him  in  doubt.    He  was  weak :  so  are  all 
Who  believe  in  their  strength ;  and  the  many  who  fall 
Into  folly  and  sin  are  the  arrogant  souls 
Who  stand  censor  to  others. 

We  go  to  the  goals 
Of  our  strong  aspiration  in  weakness  that  trips  us 
Again  and  again.     The  hard  fortune  that  whips  us 
With  discipline's  lashes  has  oftenest  found 
Opportunity  swift  when  we  fell  to  the  ground 
With  our  faces  uplifted  in  scorn  of  the  weak. 
If  we  find  the  great  blessing  of  strength,  we  must  seek 
For  it  humbly,  believing  our  need  to  be  sore. 


If  the  hills  of  the  East  have  a  charm  to  restore 
Balmy  peace  to  the  troubled  of  soul,  the  wide  plains 
Of  the  West  are  as  richly  endowed. 


He  regains 


I!i'! 


244 


GEBALDINE. 


The  sweet  quiet  of  being  who  goes  to  them  faint 
With  long  striving  for  victory ;  doubt  and  complaint 
Become  rest  and  rejoicing ;  the  rigors  that  goaded 
Him  on  melt  away  in  the  sunlight,  so  loaded 
With  burdens  of  glory  it  glows  like  the  blazing 
Of  tropical  heat ;  and  eyes  weary  with  gazing. 
The  roll  and  the  sweep  of  their  reaches  are  grand 
As  the  ocean  unbounded  ;  the  billows  of  land 
Float  away  to  horizons  far  lapping  the  sky ; 
And  the  magical  breezes  blow  ardently  by, 
As  if  bearing  rich  argosies  over  the  sea 
To  some  haven  of  hope.     If  infinitude  be 
Ever  laid  before  mortals  for  dim  comprehending, 
It  hides  in  the  plains  and  their  reaches  unending. 


The  saunterer's  mission  was  Trent's.     He  fulfilled  it 
Religiously.     Time  was  his  own :  if  he  killed  it. 
And  buried  it  out  of  his  sight,  he  was  winning 
The  wager  of  life.     And  he  thought  it  not  sinning, 
In  search  of  his  bodily  good,  and  the  peace 
Of  his  spirit,  to  throw  away  care,  and  to  cease 
From  all  studious  habits.     He  lived  like  the  men 
Whom  he  met  by  the  way.     He  abandoned  his  pen 
For  his  rifle ;  spent  weeks  as  a  hunter  with  those 
Who  made  hunting  a  business  ;  laid  down  at  the  close 
Of  each  radiant  day  with  his  face  to  the  stars  ; 
And  sleep  opened  for  him  the  imprisoning  bars 
Of  his  being,  and  freed  him  to  perfect  content. 


GERALD  IN E. 


245 


The  glad  winds  of  the  West  in  their  sport  came  and  went 
Where  unsheltered  he  lay ;  and,  as  boldly  they  kissed  him, 
Their  marvellous  vigor  flowed  into  his  system, 
And  so  he  grew  strong. 

He  was  seldom  in  reach 
Of  the  mails,  and  but  seldom,  therefore,  did  the  speech 
Of  his  friends  come  to  gladden  or  sadden  him.     One 
AYrote  as  little  of  love  as  if  scarcely  begun 
To  believe  herself  loving  ;  the  other  withheld 
Not  a  passionate  word,  and  her  passion  compelled 
His  replies.     But  he  wrote  to  his  Geraldine  merely 
The  messages  born  of  a  love  that  sincerely 
Is  guarded  of  duty,  —  such  letters  as  most 
Of  men  send  to  their  wives  when  their  love  is  a  ghost 
Of  the  thing  it  once  was,  and  comes  only  in  sight 
As  a  matter  of  habit  when  rarely  they  write. 


Did  he  love  her  ?    He  questioned  thus  daily.     In  vain 
Did  he  say  to  his  heart  that  the  answer  was  plain 
In  the  question  itself.    ' '  Love  ^  ay  doubt, ' '  he  could  hear 
His  heart  reason.     "  The  love  that  is  surest  may  fear 
For  its  very  existence.     Wild  passion  may  hide 
It  from  sight ;  but  it  will  not  so  swiftly  have  died 
As  you  think.     It  is  modest.     It  sits  in  the  shade 
Of  assertion  unblushing,  and  trembles,  afraid 
For  its  life.     But  hot  passion  is  bold  as  the  day, 
And  it  knows  no  rebuking,  nor  foars  to  betray 
Itself  ever  and  always." 


p'fji 


Hi 


246 


GEEALDTNE. 


lie  held  by  the  love 
He  had  pledged  to  be  true  to,  before  and  above 
The  strong  feeling  that  shadowed  it,  e'en  though  his  lips 
Were  so  dumb  to  expression  while  passion's  eclipse 
Hovered  over.     Nor  once  did  he  say  to  its  face 
That  it  could  not  be  love  ;  that  it  came  to  a  place 
Not  divinely  its  own  ;  that  the  heaven-guided  guest 
Had  more  recently  come  to  abide  in  his  breast, 
And  the  early  intruder  must  go.     Never  through 
The  long  days  was  he  thus  to  his  pledges  untrue, 
If  untrue  in  a  deeper  and  wickeder  sense 
He  confessed  himself.     Either  in  fact  or  pretence 
He  was  loyal  to  love  in  the  positive,  though 
The  superlative  tried  him  for  treason. 

The  glow 
Of  young  summer  grew  fierce  on  the  plains,  and  he  took 
His  way  thence  to  the  mountains  ;  there  swift  he  forsook 
All  the  commoner  haunts  for  those  places  where  only 
The  few  ever  come,  and  in  solitude  lonely 
Communed  with  the  grandeur  around  him.     He  rode 
Up  and  down  the  green  valleys ;  he  made  his  abode 
For  the  night  where  the  night  overtook  him,  and  slept 
With  no  tent  overhead  but  the  azure  that  swept 
From  one  summit  of  gray  to  another ;  he  mounted 
Magnificent  peaks,  till  in  wonder  he  counted 
Their  neighbors  magnificent,  lifting  afar 
Their  white  crowns  to  the  purple  ;  in  gorges  that  scar 
The  calm  features  of  Nature  lilce  pitiless  gashes 


GERALDINE. 


247 


Some  Titan  has  made  with  his  terrible  slashes, 
He  marvelled  anew,  till  this  life,  growing  small 
Mid  the  greatnesses  round,  seemed  to  dwindle,  and  fall 
Out  of  sight ;  and  he  moved  but  an  atom  in  space 
Overhung  by  the  Infinite's  glorious  grace. 


In  the  grand  exaltation  of  spirit  that  came 
To  him  here,  life  had  never  a  worthier  aim 
Than  to  be.     Nothing  grander  than  being  can  seem, 
Where  the  mountains  lift  upward,  majestic,  supreme, 
And  eternal.     They  stand  like  old  statues  of  time. 
Looking  God  in  the  face.     With  the  world  in  its  prime, 
They  are  hoary  of  head  ;  and  they  gleam  in  the  noons. 
Turn  to  crimson  in  sunsets,  and  gray  in  the  moon's 
Mellow  glory,  as  through  the  long  ages  asleep. 
As  the  shadows  of  darkness  fast  over  them  sweep 
When  the  moon  is  away,  they  grow  ghostly  and  grim, 
Till  their  majesties  fade  into  distances  dim. 
And  the  hush  of  their  silence  is  solemn  as  death. 
When  the  dawn  is  at  hand,  its  first  crimsoning  breath 
Floats  across  the  long  reach  of  their  summits  to  crown 

them 
With  colors  of  life  ;  the  dark  shadows  slip  down  them. 
And  seek  the  defiles  whore  they  lurk  through  the  day ; 
Clear  and  strong  their  dim  outlines  come  forth  from  the 

gray 
Of  the  morning  ;  and  through  the  baptistical  rays 
Of  the  sun  all  their  silence  is  priestly  with  praise. 


248 


GEBALBINE. 


XXVIII. 


When  the  midsummer  heat  to  its  uttermost  burned, 
From  his  wild  mountaineering  alone  Trent  returned 
To  a  town  of  the  mines,  for  some  letters  expected. 
On  reaching  the  piace  he  grew  strangely  dejected 
In  spirit,  and  felt  a  foreboding  of  ill 
That  he  could  not  shake  off,  though  he  bent  all  his  will 
To  the  task. 

It  was  time  for  his  summons  from  her 
He  had  promised  to  wed.    If  he  went,  should  he  err 
Against  both,  to  give  vows  before  God  to  be  true 
Ere  his  passion  was  dead,  and  when  truly  he  knew 
It  must  face  him  with  mockery  ?    Should  he  not  sin 
Against  God  and  his  soul,  were  he  soon  to  begin 
Wedded  life,  while  a  woman  he  never  might  wed 
Could  so  burden  his  peace  with  the  words  that  she 

said  ? 
Were  it  not  the  clear  wisdom  for  him  to  postpone 
Consummation  distrusted  tUl  doubt  should  have  flown, 
And  till  love  in  sweet  certainty  came  to  its  own  ? 
In  this  questioning  mood,  there  was  put  in  his  hand 
A  small  package  of  letters,  that  quickly  he  scanned 
For  the  two  he  cared  chiefly  to  read ;  and  he  broke 


GERALDINE. 


249 


Mrs.  Lee*s  first  of  all.     It  was  passionful ;  spoke, 
In  the  phrases  she  forcibly  used,  of  her  feeling 
Intense ;  called  upon  him  anew  for  his  healing 
The  hurt,  "  the  sweet  hurt  of  this  sorrowful  love," 
(That  had  grown  in  her  being  beyond  and  above 
All  beside,  making  other  loves  seem  but  the  sign 
Of  weak  tolerance  now,)  w^jbh  the  oil  and  the  wine 
Of  his  love-bearing  speech :  it,  in  short,  was  a  letter 
Of  credit  drawn  on  him  at  sight,  as  a  debtor 
To  love,  without  limit,  and  paid  by  his  passion 
In  throbs  of  response. 

With  a  face  growing  ashen, 
When  once  he  had  fairly  begun  to  peruse 
The  long  letter  of  Geraldine,  this  was  the  news 
That  he  read  of  her  final  decision,  the  sum 
Of  her  reasons  for  failing  to  say  he  should  come  : 


*'My  dear  Friend, — 

"  Turn  your  face  to  the  shadow  a  while. 
You  may  make  believe  then,  that  I  say  with  a  smile 
What  the  tears  give  me  trouble  to  write.     I  am  sure 
That  God  bids  me  speak,  or  I  could  not  endure 
The  hard  duty. 

*'  I  love  you :  let  this  be  as  plain 
As  I  ever  have  made  it  to  you,  and  remain 
A  fixed  thing  in  your  memory ;  though  to  refrain 
From  the  simple  confession  were  wiser,  perhaps. 
I  shall  love  you,  I  think,  till  eternity  laps 


I 


II 


( ■ 


250 


QEHALBINE. 


Upon  time.     It  is  sweet  just  to  say  it  once  more 
While  tlie  right  is  st^ill  left  me. 

*'  Yoa  loved  me  before 
You  had  come  to  the  measure  of  love  in  degree 
That  is  highest.     You  loved  me  as  much  as  in  me 
"Was  the  power  to  call  out  your  deepest  expression 
Of  love.     I  believe  it,  and^hold  the  possession 
Of  that  which  was  mine,  and  which  may  be  mine  yet, 
Above  rubies. 

"  But,  though  I  may  weep  with  regret 
That  I  could  not  the  deeps  of  your  nature  so  stir 
As  another  has  done,  I  no  longer  demur 
Against  fortune  that  proved  me  so  weak  to  excite 
Your  strong  feeling,  and  showed  you  the  higher  de- 
light 
That  I  could  not  awaken.     And  blame  cannot  live 
In  my  heart  against  you.     I  have  nought  to  forgive 
Of  unfaith  :  you  have  been  to  your  pledges  as  true 
As  true  purpose  could  hold  you.     A  greater  love  grew 
In  your  breast,  and  it  would  not  be  stifled. 

*'I  knew 
Months  ago  of  the  struggle  that  wearied  you,  saw 
How  you  battled  in  secret  to  conquer  a  law 
Of  your  nature,  and  feared  the  defeat  that  impended. 
You're  battling  to-day :  but  the  fight  will  have  ended 
When  this  you  have  read ;  for  I  claim  you  no  longer 
As  mine.     You  may  yield  to  the  love  that  is  stronger 
Than  love  given  me,  and  be  free  to  win  much 


OEBALDINE. 


251 


As  may  answer  to  yours.     And  God  grant  that  it  touch 
You  to  peace  I 

"  I  have  struggled  to  say  this  so  long  ; 
For  I  could  not  at  first  give  you  up.     May  the  wrong 
Of  my  selfishness  find  its  quick  pardon !     I  hoped 
That  my  love  might  still  hold  you  to  me :  but  I  groped 
In  a  path  growing  dark,  for  my  will  was  arrayed 
Against  God's  ;  and  my  wishes  were  most,  I'm  afraid, 
For  my  happiness  rather  than  yours. 

"  You  will  make 
No  reply  to  this  letter,  but  spare  me  the  ache 
Of  repeating  the  prayerful  decision  contained 
In  it  here.    If  you  knew  how  my  heart  had  complained 
To  itself,  — how  with  ready  excuses  it  plied  me, 
And  long  all  the  comfort  of  trusting  denied  me,  — 
You  could  be  but  pitiful  now,  as  you  must. 
I  have  faith  in  your  manhood  and  mercy :  I  trust 
In  your  silence  to  help  me  do  right.     For  the  way 
Opens  clear  to  my  sight ;  and  you  never  must  say 
To  yourself  or  to  me  that  you  ought  to  fulfil 
The  faith  plighted  between  us.     I  know  that  the  will 
Of  the  Lord  is  against  it.     I  know  that  he  tells  us 
To  separate  now ;  and  he  always  compels  us 
To  hear  him. 

"  You  must  not  feel  blame  because  I 
Make  a  sacrifice  costly  to  me.     By  and  by 
Compensation  will  come  to  my  soul  for  the  loss 
To  my  heart.     By  and  by,  shining  sweetly  across 


i :; 


252 


OERALDINE. 


3S  \. 


The  hard  path  that  I  i^o,  I  shall  see  the  clear  smile 
Of  my  Master ;  and  .aat  will  the  way  so  beguile, 
I  shall  cease  to  regret. 

"  Do  not  think  of  me,  then, 
As  unhappy  forever,  or  urge  me  again, 
Out  of  pity  and  honor  mistaken,  to  wed  you. 
The  love  that  against  your  own  will  has  thus  led  you 
Apart  from  me  quite,  was  permitted  for  some 
Divine  purpose.     I  beg  you,  my  friend,  to  be  dumb 
While  I  study  the  lesson  that  to  me  is  taught : 
When  I  fully  have  mastered  it,  life  will  have  caught 
A  deep  meaning  but  now  only  dimly  defined. 
And  the  Teacher  will  prove  that  his  wisdom  was  kind. 


**  On  a  day  that  is  distant,  perhaps,  we  may  stand 
Face  to  face  in  a  friendship  with  strength  to  command 
Every  thought  of  the  past  into  silence  and  sleep. 
Until  then  you  will  see  me  no  more,  lest  I  reap 
Greater  harvest  of  pain  than  to-day  I  must  glean. 
May  God  bless  you  in  love  and  in  life  !      May  you  lean 
On  his  bosom  for  rest  when  you  weary !     May  being 
Grow  broader  and  richer  henceforth  to  your  seeing. 
And  fill  itself  nobly  with  duties  well  done ! 
God  be  with  you,  and  keep  you ! 

.  .  .  "At  last  I  have  won 
The  long  conflict.     Henceforth  I  shall  think  of  you 

mainly 
As  one  who  was  dear,  and  is  dead  ;  and,  if  vainly 


gehaldine. 


253 


I  seek  thus  to  put  you  away,  I  shall  kuow 
That  the  Master  would  teach  me  still  further,  and  go 
Through  the  ways  of  remembrance  till  he  leads  me  far 
Where  the  pools  of  his  peace  and  his  blessedness  are. 

"  Let  me  kiss  you  farewell,  as  a  sister  might  kiss  you 
Who  felt  that  for  years  she  must  want  you  and  miss  you. 
Forgive  the  hot  tears  that  will  fall  on  your  face. 
I  am  heart-worn  and  weak  ;  but  the  pitying  grace 
Of  our  Father  will  strengthen  me.     Into  youi*  eyes 
Let  me  look  once  again,  while  the  saddest  good-bys 
That  I  ever  have  wept  trickle  over  my  cheeks, 
And  my  love  its  last  picture  for  memory  seeks. 
Breathe  a  prayer  with  me  now  that  not  always  between 
The  dear  picture  and  me  shall  be  tears. 

"  Geraldine." 


As  he  read  and  re-read  it,  quick  flushes  of  shame 
Brought  the  color  anew  to  his  cheeks,  and  swift  blame 
Of  himself  fell  upon  him.     He  saw,  as  by  clear 
Revelation,  how  weak  he  would  always  appear 
In  her  sight,  and  how  wickedly  love  had  been  wronged. 
And  he  felt,  that,  in  losing  what  once  had  belonged 
To  him  wholly,  he  lost  a  great  treasui'e  of  worth 
Beyond  any  conception  before. 

The  wide  earth 
Was  between  them.     He  knew  her  too  well  to  assail 
Her  decision  by  reason  or  wish.     To  avail 


254 


GEllALBINE. 


Against  faith  like  her  own,  against  purpose  so  strong 
Based  upon  it,  he  now  must  convince  her  of  wrong 
Against  him  in  her  judgment,  must  show  her  that  through 
All  the  days  of  his  doubt  he  had  ever  been  true 
To  the  h"  .  'St  ideal  of  love.     Could  he  do  it? 
He  shrank  from  the  question  when  thus  he  came  to  it. 
It  hurt  him  deep  down.     It  revealed  to  him  clearly 
How  false  he  hq,d  been ;  and  for  days  he  was  nearly 
Dis^.racted  between  all  the  bitter  accusals 
Of  conscience,  the  hungers  of  heart,  the  refusals 
Of  shame-stricken  manhood,  that  hourly  beset  him. 
For,  turn  where  he  would,  they  persistently  met  him. 
And  harassed  him,  pricked  him,  defied  him  to  scorn 
Of  himself,  till  he  wished  he  had  never  been  born. 


GEliALBlNE. 


255 


XXIX. 


On  departing,  thus  troubled,  beset,  from  the  town,  — 
Was  it  accident?  —  something  occurred  that   should 

crown 
The  unhappy  condition  of  Trent.     As  he  rode 
Through  a  caiaon,  where  foaming  and  musical  flowed 
A  wild  torrent,  he  found,  by  the  bridle-path  lying, 
A  man  who  wy.s  dead,  or  at  best  appeared  dying. 
Alone.     He  lay  prone  on  his  face.     In  his  side 
Was  a  wound  fiom  which  oozed  the  life-current,  and  dyed 
His  apparel.     He  looked  lilie  a  miner,  but  more 
Like  the  men  who  infest  mining-camps  to  win  ore 
By  the  turn  of  a  card,  not  the  stroke  of  a  pick. 


;il 


To  dismount,  and  to  lift  the  man  up,  was  the  quick 

And  impetuous  movement  of  Trent.     As  he  laid 

The  limp  figure  again  at  its  length  in  the  shade 

Of  a  pine  overhanging,  he  gazed  in  its  face. 

It  was  colored  with  death ;  but  there  lingered  a  trace 

Of  an  earlier  beauty  within  it  despite 

Many  traces  of  reckless  abandon.     Its  white 

And  its  haggard  uplooking  at  Trent  co  deep  stirred  hiui, 

lie  groaned,  "  May  God  help  you !     I  can't." 


256 


GEBALBINE. 


The  man  heard  him, 
And  opened  his  eyes.     They  were  burning,  intense, 
With  a  haunted  look  in  them  that  glad  innocence 
Never  gives.     For  an  iirstant  they  gleamed  upon  Trent 
In  such  glaring  and  mur  ierous  way,  that  they  sent 
A  strange  fear  running  through  him,  then  softened. 

"  You're  not 
The  sneak  coward,'*  the  man  weakly  whispered,  "  who 

shot 
Me,  I  see."    And  his  eyes  closed  again.     "  Lift  me  up. 
Let  me  drink  —  from  your  flask." 

"  Mine  is  only  a  cup 
Of  cold  water,"  Trent  answered :  "  your  own,  it  maybe, 
Can  the  quicker  revive  you.     I'll  search  you,  and  see 
If  it's  empty." 

He  felt  the  man's  pockets,  .  nd  took 
A  canteen  full  of  brandy  from  one,  and  the  look 
Of  quick  death  passed  away  from  the  man  as  he  drt^nk  it. 
Then  placing  him  easily  there,  with  a  blanket 
To  bolster  him  up,  Trent  ripped  open  his  shirt, 
And  with  awkward  attention  examined  his  hurt. 
It  was  mortal :  no  question  of  that. 

"You  are  near 
The  next  world,  my  poor  fellow,  * '  said  Trent.    ' '  Do  you 

fear 
To  go  out  of  this  into  the  other?  " 

A  sneer 
Curled  the  colorless  lips. 


GEBALBINE, 


257 


"  I  was  never  —  afraid," 
The  man  answered,  with  speech  growing  stronger.    "  I 

made 
My  mind  up  —  long  ago  —  that  some  time  —  I  should 

die 
In  my  boots.     It's  a  trifle  —  too  soon  —  by  and  by 
"Would  have  suited  —  me  better,  of  course  —  but  I'll  go 
Without  flinching.     A  curse  on  the  vagabond,  though, 
Who  waylaid  me  !  "  he  said,  sudden  energy  lending 
Itself  to  his  words. 

"  And  who  was  he?  " 

"If  sending 
A  ball  through  my  body  prove  friendship,  I'll  call  him 
My  friend,"  he  made  answer.     "  Perdition  befall  him 
For  this  !  ' '     And  he  moaned  in  his  pain. 

' '  lie  should  stretch 
A  short  rope  for  the  deed  he  has  done  you,  the  wretch  I 
Was.it  plunder,  or  hate?  " 

"  We  were  partners  :  we  quarrelled, 
As  partners  are  certain  to  do.     I  had  coralled 
Too  much  —  of  the  stock,  he  declared ;  and  he  swore 
That  unless  I  divided  —  again,  be  would  bore 
A  hole  into  my  heart.     He  sneaked  up  —  at  the  last  — 
Unbeknown,  and  —  you  found  me  here,  dying  —  as  fast 
As  I  could  without  help  of  the  doctors." 

He  grew 
Half  facetious  as  strength  from  tlic  brandy  swift  flew 
Through  his  veins. 


[3 


258 


GEBALDINE. 


"  Will  you  tell  me  his  name  ?    I  will  see 
That  some  effort  is  made  to  arrest  him." 

'"Twouldbe 
To  poor  purpose.     No  soul  saw  him  do  it.     He's  free 
From  all  proof.     Let  him  go  to  the  Devil  the  way 
That  best  pleases  him." 

"  Is  there  no  word  I  can  say 
For  you  after  you're  gone?  " 

A  keen  agony  spread 
O'er  his  face. 

"  There  are  none  to  regret  me  when  dead. 
I  am  friendless,  —  a  vagabond  —  worthless  and  worse. 
All  my  life  has  been  simply  a  blight  and  a  curse  ; 
But  I'm  going  out  game  !  "     And  he  set  his  lips  hard, 
As  if  battling  with  weakness. 

*'  No  life  is  so  scarred 
And  disfigured  by  sin  but  that  blessing  can  fall 
On  it  through  the  one  Life  that  was  given  for  all," 
Replied  Trent. 


"  That's  the  stuff  of  the  preachers :  don't  preach  it 
To  me !    There's  a  hell  for  some  men,  and  they'll 
reach  it, 
f  For  all «.  ■  your  preaching.    I'm  one  of  them." 

Pain 
Of  the  body  or  soul  made  him  wince. 

He  had  lain 
A  few  seconds  in  silence,  when  Trent  spoke  again,  — 


GEBALDINE. 


259 


"  God  is  father  of  all ;  and  the  Saviour  of  men 

Is  a  brother  as  loving,  as  willing,  as  we 

Can  desire  in  our  need.     He  says,  '  Come  unto  me  ; ' 

And  no  limit  is  set  to  the  words.    Will  you  hear  him?  '* 


"  I've  long  been  a  comrade  of  Death,  and  I  fear  him 
Far  less  than  the  preachers.     I'm  growing  too  weak 
For  much  talking  ;  and  yet  I  have  someth'-^g  to  speak. 
Put  the  flask  to  my  lips." 

Trent  complied,  with  his  pity 
Deep  moved  for  the  man. 

"  At  the  East,  in  the  city 

Of  L ,  is  V  woman,  — my  wife.     You  may  learn 

Where  she  lives  —  and  her  name  —  from  my  papers, 

and  earn 
The  reward  of  her  gratitude  should  you  soon  bring 
The  glad  news  of  my  death.     If  there  be  any  thing 
She  supremely  desires,  it  is  early  to  know 
She  is  truly  a  widow." 

Said  Trent,  "I  will  go 
To  her  on  my  return  to  the  East,  and  will  bear 
The  sad  message  you  wish." 

"  It's  not  likely  she'll  wear 
Any  mourning,"  he  sneered,  going  on  as  if  Trent 
Had  not  spoken.     "  I  left  her,  without  her  consent, 
Years  ago.     A  fifth  cousin  of  hers  had  been  making 
Too  free  with  her  beauty.     I  left  her,  forsaking 
The  home  she  had  shamed.     I  enlisted,  and  soon 


ill 

m 


m 


260 


GERALD  IN E. 


They  reported  me  dead.   'T would  have  been  the  one  boon 
She  most  wanted,  —  my  death ;  but  I  lived,  though  I 

borrowed 
The  name  of  another,  and  though  my  wife  sorrowed 
In  elegant  black  for  the  loss  that  was  gain 
To  her  only.     I  lived,  and  must  live  —  that  was  plain, 
When  discharged  from  the  army  by  orders  my  own. 
I  came  West  —  on  the  quiet  —  and  wrote  her.     Alone 
Of  all  women  and  men  from  that  time,  she  has  known  — 
Me  as  living,  and  known  that  she  never  could  wed, 
Though  a  widow  —  in  name,  till  again  I  was  dead. 
I  have  punished  her  so  for  the  way  she  betrayed  me. 
Besides  —  for  my  punishment  just  —  she  has  paid  me 
My  price  every  year.     I  have  lived  on  the  sum  — 
She  was  willing  to  give  —  that  I  never  might  come 
To  life  —  there  at  her  side. ' ' 

Hearing  this,  Trent  became 
Even  pale  as  the  speaker.     He  feared  for  the  name 
Of  this  woman  so  worse  than  one  widowed.   His  breath 
Grew  as  short  as  the  man's  who  lay  facing  his  death. 


*'She  was  proud  —  she  was  handsome,*'  the  speaker 

resumed, 
* '  And  men  worshipped  her.    Dozens  —  like  me  —  have 

assumed 
That  she  loved  them  —  devotedly.     Stranger,  beware  ! 
When  the  news  of  this  day  to  that  woman  you  bear : 
She  will  win  you  to  love  her  —  as  always  she  wins 
When  it  —  suits  her  to  try. 


OEBALDINE. 


2G1 


' '  Ah !  the  daylight  —  begins  — 
To  fade  —  early.     I  thought — it  was  morning  —  my 
friend.'* 


T 


e 


With  great  effort  Trent  spoke,  — 

*'  It  is  noon  ;  but  the  end 
Of  your  life  may  appear  like  the  close  of  a  day. 
It  is  twilight  for  you.     In  the  dusk  let  us  pray 
That  a  morning  of  pardon  be  yours."    And  beside 
The  man  dying  he  knelt. 

*'  O  thou  Saviour,  who  died 
Between  sinners,  that  sinners  might  live,  see  the  soul 
That  is  going  to  God  unforgiven,  and  roll 
Its  black  burden  of  guilt  from  it  swiftly.     Bend  down 
In  beneficent  mercy  this  moment,  and  crown 
A  poor  life  with  the  blessing  of  peace.    Turn  the  heart 
Of  this  sinner  to  penitence.  Lord,  thou  who  art 
The  one  Master  and  Father  of  all.     Make  him  yield 
To  the  sweet  ministration  of  Christ.     Be  revealed 
To  him  now,  in  this  darkness  of  noonday,  as  one 
"Who  forgives  and  is  kind ;  who  is  just,  but  whose  Son 
Can  redeem  the  most  fallen  to  thee.     Let  him  seek 
The  great  treasure  of  life  at  the  last ;  and,  as  weak 
And  uncertain  he  gropes  for  it  now,  take  his  hand, 
Divine  Brother  of  men,  and  lead  into  the  land 
Where  the  weakest  can  never  sin  more." 

As  he  faltered, 
And  ceased  his  petition,  the  dying  face  altered. 


i:k 


■fit 
mi 


262 


GERALDINE. 


The  (lying  lips  moved,  as  if  shaping  a  prayer ; 
And  a  smile  settled  on  them,  and  fixed  itself  there. 
By  the  wayside,  Death  came  in  his  silence,  and  none 
Could  have  seen  his  dark  fonn  in  the  noon  of  the  sun ; 
Yet  he  took  the  life  up  from  the  clay  at  his  feet, 
And  he  bore  it  away  with  a  motion  so  fleet 
That  the  watcher  knew  not  if  it  lingered,  or  went, 
But  in  awe  the  old  marvel  awaited. 

As  Trent 
Became  certain  that  life  had  gone  out  of  the  face 
Growing  fairer  before  him,  he  rose  from  the  place 
Where  he  knelt,  and  walked  down  to  the  torrent  to  lave 
His  hot  brow  in  its  beauty  and  blessing.     A  grave 
Must  be  dug,  and  within  it,  perchance,  he  must  bury 
Some  part  of  his  faith  in  his  kind.     How  the  meriy, 
Mad  music  of  waters  grew  sad  to  his  oars  ! 
He  was  buffeted  now  by  the  bitterest  fears 
That  had  ever  assailed  him.     Who  was  the  man  dead 
In  the  shadow  near  by  ?    And  what  woman  had  wed 
Him,  dishonored  her  vows,  and  such  penalty  paid 
For  her  sin  and  his  silence  ? 

He  tenderly  laid 
His  cloak  over  the  figure  at  length,  after  taking 
Whatever  of  value  was  on  it.     With  aching 
Expectancy,  then,  he  sat  down  to  make  clear 
In  the  papers  before  him  the  mystery  here. 
As  the  first  revelation,  he  started  to  see 
A  fair  portrait  look  out  —  that  of  Isabel  Lee. 


UERALDINE. 


263 


J\.J\.w\.r 


Major  Mellen  to  Rivermet  went,  as  the  summer 
Grew  long  ;  and  Miss  Hope,  as  she  met  every  comer, 
Received  him  with  courtesy  winning  and  sweet 
When  lie  called. 

"  I  am  off  for  a  rest ;  and  my  feet 
"Would  not  carry  me  farther  until  I  had  tarried 
To  look  in  your  face,"  he  said  warmly. 

She  parried 
His  compliment  gracefully,  though  she  felt  sure 
He  was  thinking  her  changed. 

"  But  what  makes  you  endure 
The  hot  season  in  town?  "  he  made  question.     '*  You 

show 
The  depression  it  causes.    You  surely  should  go 
To  the  seaside." 

"  I  may  by  and  by,"  she  replied  : 
* '  I  have  hardly  been  strong  enough  yet ; ' '  and  she  sighed 
In  unconscious  confession  of  weakness. 

He  spoke 
His  regrets  with  more  feeling  than  often  he  woke 
Into  speech,  and  she  looked  at  him  wondering.     Then 
She  discovered  his  errand,  and  trembled. 


If 


264 


GERALDINE. 


' '  All  men 
Who  have  met  you,"  he  said,  ^'rnust  believe  that  you 

never 
Can  sicken,  or  change,  or  grow  old.     You  are  ever 
To  look  at  them  out  of  a  face  that  is  fair, 
From  your  windows  of  life  ever  young.    You  will  wear 
In  my  sight  the  same  smile  that  unceasing  you  wore 
That  brief  summer  I  saw  you  at  first,  and  before 
I  had  come  to  my  years  of  discretion." 

He  smiled 
As  if  half  in  contempt  of  his  past. 

* '  I  was  wild 
In  those  days,"  he  went  on,  "  and  too  wayward  to  win 
Your  respect  altogether.     You  held  it  a  sin 
Pretty  nearly,  that  I  should  declare  as  I  did 
How  I  loved  you.     You  chided  me  then,  and  forbid 
Me  to  see  you  again  till  I  quite  had  outgrown 
The  hot  fancy  that  vexed  you.     You  gave  me  a  stone 
Of  dislike  when  I  begged  for  the  bread  that  could  feed  me 
To  worthier  life,  —  your  great  love.   Could  you  need  me 
To-day  as  I  need  you,  I'd  give  you  the  whole 
Of  my  being,  my  strength,  all  the  body  and  soul 
That  are  mine.     The  old  fancy  is  dead ;  but  maturer 
And  stronger  than  that  is  this  love  that  is  purer 
I  oliar  you  now.     And  I  beg  you  be  pitiful ! 
None  of  the  worst,  out  of  all  the  wide  city  full. 
Need  your  true  goodness  as  I  do.     I  plead 
As  I  never  have  pleaded  before." 


GERALBINE. 


2G5 


"If  your  need 
Be  so  gi'cat,"  she  made  answer  quite  slowly  and  faintly, 
While  over  her  face  came  a  look  that  was  saintly, 
"  I  never  can  meet  it.     I  gave  all  I  had 
Long  ago  to  another."     She  smiled  in  a  sad, 
Sober  way  that  was  touching  to  see.     "  You  have  more 
Of  love's  riches  than  I.     You  can  some  time  restore 
Any  loss  of  your  love,  you  believe  ;  but  for  me  — 
I  must  always  love  on,  though  my  love  ever  be 
But  a  grief  and  a  bitterness." 

*'  Say  you  are  free 
From  all  pledges.  Miss  Hope,"  he  went  on  to  beseech  ; 
"  Say  you  do  not  quite  hate  me,  and  then  I  will  teach 
You  again  to  be  glad  and  forget.     I  would  take 
You  to  me,  though  I  knew  you  were  ill  with  the  ache 
Of  your  love  for  another,  believing  you'd  learn 
In  my  arms  to  grow  happy  and  strong,  and  return 
All  I  give  you." 

She  thanked  him,  with  eyes  growing  dim, 
For  his  charity  broad. 

"  I  am  pledged  but  to  Him 
Who  creates  or  permits  every  love.     My  one  vow 
Is  to  follow  his  leading  in  patience,  and  bow 
To  his  will.     He  would  never  allow  me  to  seek 
A  new  happiness,  till  he  has  taught  me  how  weak 
Are  affections  of  earth  to  bring  happiness  best. 
He  is  giving  me  now  a  hard  lesson  to  test 
My  submission  to  him.     I  must  always  deny 


m 
•II 


i 


IT 


fdiSU 


2GG 


GERALDTNE. 


What  you  ask  ;  for  no  need  can  \ye  greater  than  my 
Certain  duty.     Besides,  it  would  be  but  a  sin 
Against  God  and  ourselves  for  us  two  to  begin 
Wedded  life,  with  my  heart  buried  deep  in  its  grave, 
And  your  heart  turned  away  from  the  Maker,  who  gav 
It  capacities  great." 

"  Do  you  hate  me?  "  he  asked 
"With  quick  passion. 

Her  weakness  was  burdened  and  tasked 
To  its  uttermost. 

"  No.     I  have  thought  of  you  only 
As  one  of  my  friends,  —  as  of  one  who  was  lonely. 
And  so  to  be  pitied,  because  he  had  I^ept 
The  Lord  out  of  his  life."     And  she  silently  wept 
As  she  said  this.     "  I  pity  you  now,  and  I  pray 
Him  to  pity  you  too." 

*'  Yet  you  sit  there,  and  say 
That  you  never  will  lead  me  to  him,  as  you  might. 
If  I  perish  at  last  in  the  pitiful  fight 
I  have  made  and  am  making  with  faith,  will  you  stand 
Conscience  free,  when  you  might  have  laid  hold  of  my 

hand. 
And  uplifted  me  ?     You  can  believe  in  a  God 
Who  is  kind,  though  he  hurt  you  ;  you  look  at  his  rod 
As  a  discipline :  I  only  doubt,  as  I  must, 
Bom  a  sceptic  at  best.     But  to  live  with  your  trust 
At  my  side  would  be  next  to  believing,  would  hold  me, 
At  leasL  from  denial  complete." 


GERALDINE. 


2G7 


*'  Thoiigli  3^011  told  rac," 
She  answered,  "  that,  were  I  henceforth  to  deny 
Your  request,  I  should  send  you  to  ruin,  still  I 
Should  deny  it.     Your  duty  lies  only  on  you : 
You  must  do  it,  or  suffer.     And  I  must  be  true 
To  myself  and  the  teachings  of  God  ;  and  these  tell  me 
That  love  is  essential  to  love  :  they  compel  me 
Forever  to  hold  myself  free  from  a  union 
"Where  two  cannot  meet  in  the  perfect  communion 
Of  hearts,  neither  giving  the  other  a  measure 
It  cannot  return,  and  both  finding  all  pleasure 
In  giving  their  all.     I  have  nothing  to  give. 
You  would  fall  iuto  folly  and  sin,  should  you  live, 
Or  attempt  it,  on  husks  of  a  poor  toleration, 
Unfed  and  unhelped  by  love's  full  consecration 
Responding  to  yours.     I  should  lead  you  to  death. 
Should  I  bid  you  to  come,  with  no  love  in  the  breath 
Of  my  bidding.     The  leading  of  God  is  far  better 
Than  mine  ;  for  he  binds  with  the  beautiful  fetter 
Of  love  beyond  changing,  that  never  can  fail." 


I! 


I- ''a 
It- 


I 


"  I  would  rather  have  your  love  than  his." 

She  grew  pale 
At  his  wicked  iiTeverence. 

"  Pardon  the  thought, 
And  the  speaking  it,"  quickly  he  said. 

"But  you  ought 
To  beg  pardon  of  him,"  was  her  answer. 


268 


GERALBINE. 


Jn  i 


I   i 


r-sr     ■  I! 
T      I; 


lie  lifted 


His  eyebrows  amusedly. 

"  Some  are  not  gifted 
At  praying,"  he  parried.     "  I  never  should  be." 

She  was  hurt  by  hir  manner,  and  he  could  but  see 
His  mistake. 

"  I  wan  mad  to  suppose  that  my  need 
Could  win*  favor  from  you,  or  that  passion  could  plead 
Out  of  lips  so  irreverent  ever  as  mine, 
And  not  shock  you.     'Twere  madness  and  tolly  of 

thine. 
Could  I  even  persuade  you,  to  trust  to  my  keeping 
The  peace  of  your  faith.     I  should  win  you  to  weeping 
The  bitterest  often.     And  still  I  believe 
You  would  help  me,  Miss  Hope.    I  shall  go  but  to  grieve 
That  my  fate  is  unkind."     And  a  tenderer  ring 
In  his  tones  made  her  pity  him  moro. 

"I  can  bring 
You  no  heart's-ease "  she  answered  him  softly,  "to 

please  you. 
Since  faith  that  is  comfort  to  me  cannot  ease  you. 
I  live  on  its  blessing  to  day,  as  may  all 
Who  in  trouble  of  soul  to  its  ministry  call 
For  relief." 

"  Are  you  happy?  "  he  asked  her. 

Tne  tears 
On  her  face  gave  him  answer. 


GEBALBINE. 


269 


13 


"  The  Father  who  hears 
My  petition  each  day  would  not  grant  it,  I  think, 
Should  i  ask  him  for  happiness  yet.     I  must  drink 
The  whole  cup  that  he  gives  me,  though  bitter  and  deep. 
I  may  never  be  happy  again,  save  in  sleep 
And  in  dreams  —  as  I  once  was,  I  mean  ;  but  the  peace 
Of  obedient  service  may  cause  me  to  cease 
Any  longing  for  happiness  lower." 

He  saw 
The  great  weariness  marking  her  face  ;  and  with  awe 
Of  her  faith  that  he  never  had  yielded  before, 
He  arose  to  depart.     As  he  stood  at  the  door, 
He  remarked,  — 

""Will  you  grant  me  some  leave-taking  token. 
To  prove  that  I  have  not  incurably  broken 
Our  friendly  relations?    Your  promise  to  breathe 
A  brief  prayer  for  me  daily  would  always  inwreathe 
Me  in  holy  remembrance.     I  ask  it  as  one. 
Who,  long  doubting  your  faith,  has  almost  now  begun 
To  be  sick  of  his  doubt ;  and  I  ask  it  for  sake 
Of  my  love,  that,  in  leaving  you  now,  would  here  make 
Its  confession  of  weakness.     I've  tasted  the  sweets 
Of  all  sinning ;  I've  mocked  at  the  bitter  defeats 
That  have  mastered  me.     Long  in  my  weariness,  tucd 
Of  these  idle  pretences,  my  soul  has  desired 
With  a  hungry  desiring  some  help  from  without. 
As  I  came  here  to-day,  in  this  pitiful  doubt 
Of  myself,  to  entreat  you  to  give  me  your  love, 


■  J|v, 

m 


m 


270 


GERALBINE. 


So  I  ask  you  to  bear  my  great  longing  above 
All  the  sins  that  beset  it.     I  know  not  the  way, 
And  I  have  not  the  words." 

"  I  will  promise  to  pray 
That  some  prayer  may  be  taught  you,"  she  said.     And 

her  eyes 
Overflowed  as  she  spoke.     "  God  is  near,  and  our  cries 
He  can  hear,  though  so  feeble  and  faint  that  they  seem 
Like  a  breath  in  the  night.     And  his  help  is  supreme 
In  its  blessing.     You'll  know  it  some  time."     And  she 

smiled 
Through  her  tears. 

"  In  your  company  faith  had  beguiled 
Me,  perhaps,  to  believing  long  since.     I  have  fear 
For  my  future  alone.     God  is  nearer  me  here 
By  your  side  than  he  ever  will  come  when  I  go 
Into  ways  of  my  choosing.     I  know  this,  and  know 
I  shall  need  you  forever.     Good-by." 

As  he  went 
Thus  abruptly,  the  strength  of  her  womanhood  spent 
To  its  uttermost,  Geraldine  sank  to  her  knees, 
By  a  sofa,  half  fainting. 

Through  cruel  degrees 
She  had  come  to  a  weakness  so  weary  and  worn, 
Tliat  it  seemed  she  had  suffered  and  sorrowed  and  borne. 
Until  death  would  be  welcome. 

Alas  !  had  she  known 
Kow  another  was  tempted  and  beaten,  akne, 


GEBALDINE.  271 

And  unhelped  of  the  Master,  since  asking  had  flown 
From  his  need,  she  might  even  have  begged  to  surrender 
Ihe  burden  of  being. 

But  God  is  as  tender 
And  loving  as  wise.     He  in  mercy  will  keep 
Too  much  seeing  from  eyes  that  already  must  weep. 


ij^ 


">!    ,1 


1,4  t 


t  ''ft , 


M 


272 


GEBALLINE, 


J! 


XXXI. 

In  the  solitudes  vast,  in  the  wide,  solemn  spaces 
Where  mountains  looked  up  with  their  reverent  faces, 
As  if  they  besought  benediction  on  all 
Who  were  troubled  of  soul,  lingered  Trent.     Of  the 

gall 
Of  self-scorn,  self-condemnings,  he  drank  day  by  day 
Wretched  draughts.    On  his  forehead  the  breezes  might 

play 
From  white  snow-peaks  that  yonder  gleamed  always  in 

sight ; 
But  he  knew  not  the  touch  of  their  cooling  delight. 
He  was  worn  ;  but  he  cared  for  no  healing.    He  waited 
Apart  from  his  kind,  in  a  gloom  tLat  was  fated 
To  blind  him  to  every  bright  presence,  and  stood 
Face  to  face  with  dark  evil,  deserted  of  good. 


There  are  terrible  deeps  that  a  man  may  go  down 
When  his  feet  are  not  stayed.     From  the  beautiful  crown 
Of  some  summit  of  gladness  he  sudden  may  sink 
Into  blackness  of  hell,  with  no  will  but  to  shrink 
From  the  terror,  no  strength  to  leap  upward,  and  hold 
Himself  there  in  the  sunliglit- 


GERALBINE, 


273 


Iwn 


Id 


The  shadows  that  rolled 
Over  Trent  became  darker  and  denser.     The  days 
Moved  along  like  a  dream.     The  white  noons,  the  cool 

grays 
Of  the  evenings,  the  dawns  with  their  wonderful  blushes 
On  mountain  and  sky,  and  the  marvellous  hushes 
That  stilled  all  the  world,  —  what  were  these  in  the 

strait 
Of  his  being  ?     Alone  he  confronted  the  great 
And  unknowable  mysteries.     Life  was  his  own,  —  . 
To  be  lived  amid  pain ;  to  give  up  with  the  groan 
Of  an  instant ;  to  cling  to,  with  skies  like  a  psalm. 
And  the  air  heavy  laden  with  peace  like  a  balm  ; 
To  let  go  at  his  will  when  tempestuous  sweeps 
Of  the  storm  bore  him  down  to  these  horrible  deeps  ; 
To  be  sick  of  and  scorn  ;  to  condemn  as  a  gift 
Without  blessing  or  worth  ;  to  give  absolute  shift  — 
If  he  dare !     Yes,  his   life  was  his  own.     What  of 

death  ? 
The  one  heritage  truly  ;  the  Silence  that  saith 
To  all  care  and  all  effort,  "  Be  still !  "  the  one  blessing 
The  poorest  of  all  may  be  sure  of  possessing  ; 
The  rest  from  all  fever  ;  the  peace  from  all  pain  ; 
The  one  antidote  certain  for  life's  bitter  bane  ; 
All  humanity's  right,  that  Divinii;^  gave 
When  he  peopled  the  earth,  and  permitted  a  grave ; 
The  last  mystery  waiting  mortality's  ken. 
To  be  read  l)}^  and  by  —  why  not  master  it,  then  ? 


il; 


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274 


GERALDINE. 


What  was  Fame,  that  he  cared  for  it?     Only  a  speck 

On  the  ocean  to  sink  in  it ;  only  a  fleck 

In  the  blue  far  above  him  to  fade  in  the  sun, 

And  be  lost.  What  was  Kight,  that  the  race  he  should  run 

Against  Wrong  and  be  borne  to  the  dust,  but  a  bare 

And  uncertain  abstraction,  that  puniest  care 

Like  his  own  could  not  nourish  or  guard  ?    What  was 

Duty 
But  just  a  poor  idol,  bereft  of  all  beauty. 
That  he  had  been  worshipping  blindly  till  now  ? 
What  was  Song,  that  she  ever  could  place  on  his  brow 
Any  laurels  to  gladden  him? — what  but  a  faint 
Crying-out  after  concord,  a  feeble  complaint 
Across  echoless  distance,  all  efforts  at  singing? 
To  yield  them  all  up  were  the  best,  and  by  flinging 
Himself  on  the  Future  so  misty  and  dim, 
To  be  rid  of  the  Present  defiant  and  srini^ 


"  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  so  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
"  To  go  out  of  the  world.     I  would  walk  to  the  end 
Of  my  life  at  a  step.     Yes,  I  know  you  will  say 
Of  life  here.     But  I'm  dealing  with  things  of  to-day. 
They  have  wearied  me  utterly.     What  is  the  gain 
To  do  battle  forever?    The  victories  vain 
That  must  daily  be  won  are  but  gilded  defeats. 
I  am  sick  of  their  wearying,  vanishing  sweets. 
There  are  men  who  will  call  him  a  coward  who  goes 
From  the  work  that  is  his  to  the  lasting  repose 


GERALBINE. 


275 


a 


Of  the  grave  without  call  of  the  Master.     I  care 

For  no  speech  of  the  crowd.    But  you  know  that  I  dare 

What  the  mass  hold  in  terror.     You  know  that  I  face 

The  unknown  of  the  ages  —  the  limitless  space 

Of  the  Ever-and-Ever  —  with  courage  that  sees 

All  its  possible  dread.     I  have  drunk  to  the  lees 

Of  regret,  and  its  poison  has  entered  my  soul. 

How  it  withers  and  burns  !   How  my  heart  and  the  whole 

Of  my  riotous  being  are  simply  on  fire  ! 

I  am  wild  with  the  one  overcoming  desire 

To  go  out  from  this  fever  to  limitless  rest  — 

To  forget  —  if  I  may  ! 

' '  Were  you  ever  possessed 
Of  the  devils  of  love?    Yes,  my  friend,  there  are  such. 
They  lay  hold  as  with  fingers  of  velvet :  their  touch 
Has  the  blessing  of  paradise  in  it  at  first. 
But  God  pity  the  man  who  has  by  them  been  cursed ! 
For  they  rend  at  the  end  like  the  demons  of  hell.. 
All  the  hope  and  the  beauty  of  being,  as  well 
As  the  fruit  and  the  promise,  are  torn  to  a  shred. 
It  were  better,  indeed,  to  be  known  of  the  dead 
Than  abide  with  demoniacs  living  and  grim 
Mid  the  tombs. 

"  Waste  no  words  of  your  pity  on  him 
Who  can  feel  as  I  feel,  and  can  write  as  I  write. 
He  has  only  the  scorn  of  himself.     In  his  sight 
He  is  just  a  demoniac,  rent  with  a  rage 
That  no  Master  of  demons  is  near  to  assuagre 


f 


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iil 


276 


GERALDINE. 


ii!  5 


ill 


And  allay.     And  yet  pity  mc,  though  I  forbid 
Any  pitiful  utterance  !     Pity  me,  hid 
From  the  pity  of  God  by  a  cloud  of  black  doubt 
That  makes  night  of  my  day  !     I  am  beaten  about 
By  a  tempest  unceasing.     My  anchors  are  gone. 
It  is  gloom  without  end.     I  can  pray  for  no  dawn, 
Since  some  sin  of  my  being  has  smitten  me  dumb 
Before  Ilun  who  might  help  me,  —  who  only  could  come 
Into  tempest  so  fearful,  and  still  it. 

.  .   .  "I  wait 
But  some  prospecting  party  to  end  the  hard  fate 
Of  this  life,  and  begin   again  —  where?     They   will 

take 
A  few  lettej's  for  friends,  but  not  one  that  will  make 
Any  mention  of  purpose  like  this.     My  good-by 
AVill  not  burden  another  than  you.     When  I  lie 
Here  alone  in  the  solitude,  caring  no  more 
Whether  love  be  a  fiction,  or  death  be  a  door 
Into  fiction  more  idle,  they'll  say  I  was  killed 
By  some  vagrant.     You  only  will  know  that  I  stilled 
]My  heart's  beating  myself  ;  and  you  will  not  contend 
You  are  wiser  than  they,  since  you  serve  me  as  friend 
With  yom*  silence.     I  know  I  shall  like  the  long  quiet 
These  mountains  will  give  me.     Their  peace,  when  my 

riot 
Of  living  is  over,  will  stand  me  instead 
Of  the  heaven  that  so  blesses  those  happier  dead 
Who  have  waited  in  patience  to  reach  it.     The  Lord 


GERALDINE. 


277 


Must  ])C  near  me  henceforth  ;  and  some  meagre  reward 
Will  be  mine  for  the  pang  of  my  dying. 

' '  Farewell ! 
The  Beyond  is  so  broad,  that  two  never  can  tell 
If  again  they  will  meet  when  they  lift  its  dark  curtain 
To  wander  within  it.     This  only  is  certain  : 
The  devils  that  mock  me  wiU  miss  me,  and  I 
Shall  be  free  from  this  fever  that  burns  me.    Good-by  !  " 


f 


liet 
my 


The   days   passed.      The   pain   lingered.      The  fcsor 

burned  hot 
In  his  veins.     He  was  nigh  to  delirium.     Not 
A  stray  miner  came  near  where  he  tarried.    He  strolled 
Up  and  down  the  green  valley  in  dreams.     He  grew  old 
As  if  suns  were  the  measure  of  years. 

Then  he  made 
His  resolve.     He  would  climb  the  tall  mountain,  whose 

shade 
Had  been  over  him  daily  ;  would  sound  from  its  summit 
The  deeps  of  blue  distance  beneath,  with  his  plummet 
Of  vision  ;  would  gaze  on  the  glory  far  lying 
Around  him,  again,  and  find  easier  dying 
Where  heaven  was  the  nearest. 

The  journey  was  long, 
And  was  slow.     It  was  helped  by  no  snatches  of  song 
That  he  once  might  have  sung.     On  its  earlier  way 
There  were  reaches  of  green,  and  cool  shadiness  lay 
Like  a  blessing  upon  it ;  but  later  the  steep 


\  1 


278 


GERALD  LYE. 


Became  barren  and  rugged :  for  hours  he  must  creep 
Through  tlic  ghire  of  the  sun,  along  courses  no  feet 
Had  made  easy  before  him.     The  blistering  heat 
Of  the  noon  made  him  faint.  He  grew  giddy  and  weak, 
Yet  he  staggered  along.     Far  aljove  him  tlie  peak 
Reared  in  solitude  lonely.     Majestic,  sublime, 
It  awaited  his  coming. 

Unconscious  of  time, 
Save  that  often  it  seemed  an  eternity  here 
Had  begun,  he  crept  on.  Through  the  white  atmosphere 
He  could  see  other  peaks  lilted  far  to  the  blue 
Of  the  sky  ;  while  the  distance  took  boundaries  new 
As  he  slowly  ascended,  and  range  after  range 
In  sublimity  rose,  till  an  ocean  of  strange 
Rocky  billows  rolled  far  all  around  him,  their  tips 
Only  swept  by  the  wandering,  vanishing  ships 
Of  the  clouds,  that  before  a  warm  breeze  were  adrift. 
And  their  hues  ever  shifting  and  changing,  as  swift 
The  hot  sun,  the  cool  shadow,  went  by.  The  dark  green 
Of  the  timber-lines  everywhere  belted  between 
The  light  gray  of  the  summits,  and,  sleeping  below, 
The  soft  green  of  those  valleys  where  musical  flow 
The  mad  streams  of  the  mountains ;   the  glimmering 

gleams 
Of  white  ledges  shone  out  on  the  silvering  beams 
Of  the  sun,  and  gave  light  to  the  soberer  veins 
Lurking  lower ;  and  broad  in  the  east  the  great  plains 
lloUed  away  from  his  vision,  vast  reaches  of  yellow, 


GERALDINE. 


279 


Ling 


Dry  sod,  with  long  swells  like  the  sea,  aud  a  mellow 
Haze  marking  their  splendor  remote. 

As  he  rested 
At  times,  he  looked  over  that  ocean,  so  crested 
With  color  and  grandeur,  half  heeding  how  splendid 
The  view  had  become,  and  yet  feeling  befriended 
And  helped  by  its  breadth.  Though  the  fever  grew  hotter 
And  fiercer  within  him,  and  often  the  water 
Supply  that  he  bore  was  diminished,  his  brain 
Became  steadier,  truer,  the  throbbings  of  pain 
At  his  heart  were  less  wild,  and  the  marvellous  wonder 
Of  being  laid  hold  on  his  insight ;  for  under 
The  massiveness  round  a  great  thought  seemcjd  to  hido 
From  his  vision,  though  dimly  and  vaguely  descried 
By  some  deeper  sense  in  him.     He  felt  that  he  neared 
The  sublimities  nearest  to  God.     It  appeared 
To  his  sensitive  soul,  as  yet  higher  he  climbed, 
That  he  came  where  his  nature  the  nearest  sublimed 
To  the  nature  divine.     He  grew  out  of  his  own 
Narrow  bondage  of  life  into  freedom  alone 
He  can  know  who  is  filled  by  a  new  comprehension 
Of  infinite  fact. 

The  day  waned.     The  ascension 
More  rugged  became.     The  thin  air  was  so  light, 
That  he  panted  for  breath.     Still  above  him  the  white 
Of  the  peak  was  uplifted  against  the  blue  arch 
Vaulting  over,  but  lent  him  no  shadow.     His  march 
Had  begun,  he  believed,  tlu'ough  eternity.     Slowly 


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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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280 


GERALDINE. 


He  dragged  himself  up  through  the  solitude  holy, 
As  slowly  the  sun  swung  its  way  down  the  west. 
The  cool  summit  airs  kissed  him  at  last,  as  a  guest 
"Who  was  welcome.    They  fanned  his  faint  heart.  They 

upbore  him. 
As  onward  he  went,  till  he  saw  just  before  him 
The  crest  that  was  highest  of  all. 

When  the  sun 
Had  sunk  quite  to  his  level,  his  journey  was  done. 
And  he  stood  on  the  uttermost  height,  —  a  bald  crown 
Of  gray  granite,  moss-covered,  from  which,   looking 

down 
Either  side,  he  could  see  the  dim  valleys  grow  dimmer 
As  deepened  the  shadows,  could  see  the  peaks  glimmer 
With  light  far  beyond  them,  could  gaze  on  their  faces, 
Uplifted  around  through  the  wide,  solemn  spaces. 
And  marvel  in  awe. 

**  All  the  strength  of  the  hills 
Is  His  also !  "  he  murmured.    "  How  weak  are  the  wills 
Of  His  creatures  !     How  puny  the  arms  we  outreach 
In  our  proudest  endeavor !     How  idle  the  speech 
That  we  utter,  the  cries  of  our  souls !     Life  is  only 
An  atom  of  weakness,  each  atom  as  lonely 
As  if  God  had  gone  from  the  world." 

There  were  tears 
On  his  face.  He  fell  prostrate,  and  swift  the  fleet  years 
Passed  before  him  as  thus  he  lay  prone.  All  their  error, 
Their  failure,  their  loss,  he  beheld.     With  a  terror 


GERALDINE. 


281 


1 

r 
icr 

k 


At  heart  that  he  never  had  known,  here  he  faced 
"VVliat  he  had  been  and  was.     He  grew  shamed  and 

abased 
In  the  presence  relentless  each  moment.     He  thought 
Of  old  Moses  on  Nebo,  who,  hungering,  caught 
A  sweet  glimpse  into  being  the  best,  and  then  gave 
It  all  up,  with  no  mortal  to  hollow  his  grave. 
And  he  said  to  himself,  "  1  have  seen  the  fair  land 
Where  love  lives  in  content ;  but  I  never  can  stand 
In  its  gladness,  or  sip  of  its  honey  and  peace. 
This  is  Nebo  to  me.     May  it  give  me  release 
From  the  bondage  of  passion  forever  ! ' ' 

He  lay 
Thus  in  trouble  of  soul  while  the  beautiful  day 
Faded  out.     The  west  crimsoned  to  scarlet.     The  bars 
Which  imprisoned  the  sun  were  blood-red.    A  few  stars 
Glinted  down  the  blue  deeps.     The  gray  twilight  let 

fall 
A  soft  mantle  of  shadows  and  silence  on  all. 


irs 
irs 
3r, 


Then  afar  from  the  north  came  a  wonderful  sweep 
Of  black  cloud  that  swift  mounted  the  darkening  steep 
Of  the  summit.     Far  thunder  growled  low.    The  sharp 

flashes 
Of  lightning  grew  constant,  and  nearer  the  crashes 
That  followed  them.     Over  the  man  lying  there 
Where  the  mercy  of  sleep  had  soon  found  him,  the  air 
Became  scintillant,  gleamed  with  fine  courses  of  flame, 


282 


GERALDINE. 


As  if  fretted  with  fire.     The  whole  mountain  became 
But  a  cone  for  electric  display. 

He  awoke 
As  the  storm  gathered  might,  and  a  thunder-gun  spoke 
Just  above  him  with  utterance  awful.     He  sprung 
To  his  feet.     Was  it  hell  ?    Had  he  certainly  flung 
Himself  into  a  future  of  horrors  ?    The  gloom 
Of  far  spaces  was  lurid  with  light,  and  the  doom 
Of  dark  Tartarus  shrouded  him.     Blinded  and  dazed 
For  the  instant,  his  brain  in  a  whirl,  as  if  crazed 
By  some  terrible  pressure,  he  stood  there,  and  strove 
To  make  sure  that  he  heard  but  the  breathings  of  Jove. 


The  mad  lightning  flew  over  the  rocks  of  the  summit 
In  crinkles  of  flame.     It  shot  down  like  a  plummet 
Of  fire  through  the  deeps  far  beneath.     The  red  flow 
Of  its  flashes  lit  up  the  black  night  with  a  glow 
Beyond  color  of  speech.   The  whole  atmosphere  gleamed 
With  the  fluid  electric  that  sparkled  and  streamed 
Round  the  visitor  there  as  if  mocking  him,  flaring 
Itself  in  his  face  as  if  vexed  at  the  daring 
He  showed,  playing  round  him  in  circles  that  filled 
All  his  frame  with  their  current. 

At  last,  as  he  thrilled 
To  the  touches  of  death  in  believing,  there  came 
From  the  deep  far  above  him  a  forking  of  flame  : 
A  great  glare  flooded  over  the  dark,  and  he  fell 
Limp  and  lifeless,  with  never  a  creature  to  tell 


GEUALDINE. 


283 


The  wild  story  and  sad,  if  forever  the  breath 

Of  his  being  had  fled,  and  this  silence  were  death. 

And  he  lay  there  alone,  with  his  white,  haggard  face 

Looking  up  to  the  sky,  neither  longing  nor  grace 

Of  life  marking  it  now  ;  while  the  pitiful  rain 

Beat  upon  it,  as  though  to  wipe  out  all  the  pain 

It  had  known  in  the  past.     Thus  he  lay  there  alone. 

Smitten  down,  with  no  time  for  a  thought  or  a  groai. , 

Smitten  down  when  he  held  a  mad  purpose  to  take 

His  own  being  up  wickedly,  rashly,  and  break 

It  in  twain  in  the  face  of  his  Maker,  —  struck  down 

By  the  Maker  himself,  on  the  masterful  crown 

Of  that  mountain  sublime,  ere  the  deed  he  had  done. 

And  the  life  of  the  future  unfitly  begun 

By  a  terrible  sin  in  the  present.     He  lay 

Thus  alone  till  the  storm  spent  itself,  and  the  gray 

Of  the  dawn  in  the  east  began  flushing  with  day. 


3d 


284 


GERALDINE. 


XXXII. 


Mother  Nature  is  kind.     The  cool  rain  pelting  there 
In  the  face  of  the  man  smitten  down  gave  him  care 
That  was  timely  and  saving.     It  rallied  him  so 
From  the  shock  he  had  suffered.    It  chilled  the  hot  glow 
Of  the  fire  in  his  veins.     'Twas  the  medicine  best 
For  this  fever  that  burned  like  a  flame  in  his  breast, 
And  it  blest  him. 

He  woke  as  the  morning  grew  strong 
To  uncover  the  night ;  he  awoke  with  a  throng 
Of  confused  recollections  besieging  his  brain. 
At  the  first,  all  his  effort  and  striving  were  vain 
To  recall  what  had  happened ;  then  slowly  he  came 
To  himself.     He  remembered  his  journey,  the  aim 
That  it  had,  the  mad  purpose  that  moved  him,  the  night's 
Awful  vision.     He  shut  his  eyes  close  ;  but  the  sights 
He  had  latest  beheld  were  before  him  again. 
As  th?y  burned  through  his  eyelids,  he  shuddered  ;  and 

then, 
Rising  up,  looking  out  from  the  height,  he  was  thrilled 
By  a  wonderful  picture. 

The  tempest  had  stilled. 
Flying  mists  from  the  summit  had  flown  to  the  deeps 


GEBALBINE. 


285 


)W 


•ng 


t's 


md 
ed 


Lower  down.     The  lone  peak  was  an  island :  its  steei)S 
Were  encircled  in  fleeciness  white,  —  a  wide  sea 
Without  motion,  milk-foamy,  outreaching  as  free 
As  the  limitless  ocean,  —  a  sea  with  no  sail 
On  its  surface  to  hint  of  a  haven  or  gale,  — 
A  broad  sea  of  white  silence,  where  softly  the  hail 
Of  some  sailors  unseen  one  might  fancy  he  heard, 
Leaning  over  to  listen. 

The  air  never  stirred 
To  a  breath.     Far  away  in  the  east  the  round  sun 
Had  rolled  up  from  this  ocean  of  cloud,  that  begun 
To  be  silver  beneath  it.     Across  the  broad  sweep, 
Looking  straight  from  himself  to  the  sun,  on  the  sleep 
Of  this  marvellous  sea  he  beheld  a  bright  shimmering, 
Scintillant  pathway''  to  glory,  whose  glimmering 
Beauty  grew  brighter  while  gazed  on.     Below, 
Hidden  under  a  gloomy,  dense  mass,  with  no  glow 
Of  glad  color  to  cheer  it,  green  valleys  lay  dim 
In  their  twilight,  and  waited  the  morning. 

For  him 
The  warm  sun  had  arisen  in  splendor  that  eyes 
Of  a  mortal  but  seldom  behold.     The  clear  skies 
Of  the  morning  held  blessings  for  him.    The  white  sea. 
Reaching  round  his  calm  anchorage,  glistened,  that  he 
Might  be  glad  with  the  vision.     For  him,  him  alone. 
The  sun  emptied  its  glory  so  freely,  that  shone 
Over  summit  and  sea.     Solitary,  and  far 
From  his  fellows,  as  ever  might  seem  a  faint  star 


■■•sfr 


286 


GERALDINE. 


Lost  away  in  the  wilderness  spaces,  he  stood 

There  deserted  of  evil,  alone  with  the  good. 

Here  and  there  a  gray  mountain-peak  rugged  uplifted 

Its  crown,  but  another  lone  island,  where  drifted 

No  mortal  along  through  the  silence  to  keep 

Ilim  companionship  distant.     The  radiant  deep 

Was  unpeopled ;  its  islands  were  desolate.     He 

Was  alone  in  the  world.     From  that  wonderful  sea 

Of  white  splendor  the  sun  had  arisen  to  glow 

For  himself,  as  if  never  a  mortal  might  know 

Its  bright  blessing,  beside,  on  the  breadth  of  the  earth ; 

For  himself,  as  if  for  him  the  planet  had  birth 

In  the  thought  of  the  Lord,  as  if  for  him  the  world 

Had  been  made,  into  wonderful  space  had  been  whirled, 

And  the  Maker  had  set  him  high  up  on  its  throne, 

And  crowned  him  with  glory  as  king  of  his  own. 


Then  he  saw,  with  a  sense  that  was  deeper  than  seeing, 

He  felt^  the  great  truth,  that  the  lines  of  his  being 

Ran  always  from  him  to  his  God  ;  that  in  fleeing 

From  life  he  was  fleeing  from  God  ;  that  forever 

His  being,  God-given,  ran  through  all  endeavor 

To  God  ;  that  he  cared  for  it,  guarded  it,  held 

It  to  uses  the  best  and  the  truest ;  compelled 

It  to  answer  for  doing  or  promises ;  knew 

Lot  and  purpose  within  it,  as  much  as  if  through 

The  long  ages  no  mortal  beside  him  could  be, 

Or  had  been  in  the  past,  and  as  much  as  if  he 


GERALDINE. 


287 


Were  the  one  only  creature  of  God's  mighty  hand, 
Set  to  serve  him  as  subject,  and  do  the  command 
Of  his  will ;  as  if  God  and  himself  peopled  all 
The  broad  universe. 

Then,  as  a  light  fell  on  Saul 
When  he  rode  to  Damascus,  convincing  him  swift 
Of  his  sin,  while  it  clearly  revealed  the  great  gift 
Of  his  pardon,  the  glory  that  Trent  beheld  here 
Laid  before  him  the  sin  of  his  purpose  ;  and  clear 
As  the  glory  itself  he  could  see  how  the  sin 
Had  deluded  his  reason.     Could  penitence  win 
Him  forgiveness  ?    Could  penitence  ever  beguile 
The  sweet  mercy  of  God,  and  make  certain  the  smile 
Of  compassionate  pity  ?    He  sank  on  his  knees, 
A  weak  suppliant  now  :  — 

' '  Divine  Father,  who  sees 
Every  wandering  soul,  a  poor  prodigal  comes 
To  thy  table,  and  begs  for  the  merciful  crumbs 
That  his  hunger  can  feed.     See  him  now  as  he  pleads 
For  thy  pardon  !     Thy  bounty  can  measure  his  needs. 
And  thy  love  can  bestow.     Let  the  light  of  thy  face 
Shine  upon  him,  as  here  he  beseeches  the  grace 
Penitential  to  hallow  his  heart.     Let  him  feel 
The  strong  clasp  of  thy  tender  embraces,  and  heal 
The  deep  hurts  he  has  suffered  from  sinful  desire. 
With  thy  touches  of  cooling  remove  vhe  hot  fire 
That  his  passion  has  kindled  within  him,  and  give 
Him  thy  peace.     Make  him  eager  hereafter  to  live. 


288 


GEBALDINE. 


II 


May  he  hold  by  thy  gift  of  creation  with  pride 
That  is  reverent,  knowing  that  always  the  wide 
And  the  infinite  distance  between  him  and  thee 
Is  bridged  over  by  infinite  love.     Let  him  see 
The  great  glory  of  being,  the  equal  and  greater 
Concern  of  a  trust  from  the  Father-Creator 
Directly  to  him. 

"  Help  him  now,  holy  God, 
As  again  he  begins  the  hard  way  to  be  trod 
Through  the  world.     It  is  dark  in  the  valleys  ;  but  far 
Above  mist,  above  gloom,  the  glad  sun-glories  are. 
May  he  see  them  forever  before  him,  as  one 
Who  has  stood  face  to  face  here  alone  with  the  sun, 
And  beheld  the  Lord's  presence.     O  Master  divine ! 
Let  this  morning  to  him  be  a  token  and  sign 
In  his  memory  ever,  that  always  above 
The  dim  twilight  of  cloud  glow  the  smiles  of  thy  love 
And  thy  pardon  compassionate." 

Melted  and  broken 
By  feeling  intense  that  so  feebly  had  spoken. 
His  prayer  became  sobbing  that  moved  him  beyond 
Any  utterance.     Over  his  forehead  the  fond 
Morning  breezes  blew  tenderly.     Kneeling,  he  felt 
Their  soft  kisses  of  cooling,  until  as  he  knelt 
He  grew  calmer,  and  stronger  of  soul. 

Then  he  rose 
To  his  feet,  and  looked  out  on  the  scene  of  repose 
So  magnificent  round  him.     A  vision  supernal 


GEBALDINE. 


289 


,r 


It  was,  in  the  light  that  from  ages  eternal 

Has  glorified  day,  since  the  Deity  spoke 

It  to  being,  and  earth  into  splendor  awoke 

From  its  earliest  night  —  a  glad  vision  of  peace. 

The  white  sea,  like  a  calm  that  no  tempest  could  cease ; 

The  lone  islands  outlying  in  silence  ;  a  rift 

Here  and  there  in  the  deep,  through  which  sudden  and 

swift 
Could  be  seen  a  green  valley  in  depths  far  below,  — 
A  glad  vision.     Alas  that  a  picture  with  glow 
So  ineffable,  beauty  and  blessing  so  fair. 
Should  as  soon  fade  away  as  the  mists  of  the  air  I 


f!i 


in 


He  was  faint  with  long  fasting,  was  hungry  and  weak, 
When  with  footsteps  that  faltered  he  turned  from  the 

peak  ' 

To  begin  his  descent.     In  the  valley  he  knew 
He  had  food,  and  a  horse  ;  but  he  said  his  adieu 
To  the  summit,  in  doubt  if  he  ever  could  gain 
What  so  greatly  he  needed.     If  upward  had  lain 
The  hard  journey,  he  soon  must  have  sunk  by  the 

way; 
But  he  stumbled  along  down  the  mountain-side,  gray 
With  the  mist  that  he  entered  at  length,  till  he  stood 
Underneath  it,  and  saw  it  inwrap  like  a  hood 
The  far  height  he  had  left.     Then  below  the  dark  chill 
Of  its  sombreness,  gloomy,  forbidding,  he  still 
Sought  the  valley  beneath. 


290 


GERALDINE. 


1.^ 


More  than  once  did  lie  sink, 
Overcome  and  exhausted  with  effort,  and  think 
That  he  never  should  rise.     More  than  once  did  he  ask 
For  the  strength  that  he  had  not,  to  finish  his  task. 
As  the  valley  grew  nearer,  more  level  the  slope 
Of  the  mountain  became  ;  t  nd  a  lingering  hope 
Died  away  in  his  heart  of  attaining  the  spot 
Where  his  camp  had  been  made.     The  sun  burned  him, 

as  hot 
It  shone  down  through  the  vanishing  clouds.     He  grew 

sick 
Unto  death.    His  lips  bleeding,  his  tongue  become  thick 
From  the  thirst  that  beset  him,  he  scarcely  could  lend 
Any  form  to  a  prayer.     He  must  walk  to  the  end 
Of  his  life,  as  it  seemed,  when  he  would  not,  nor  seek 
The  one  help,  save  in  dumb  aspiration.     And  weak 
As  a  babe  at  the  breast,  when  his  feeble  endeavor 
Had  spent  itself  utterly,  hopeless  as  ever 
Was  babe  that  had  never  breathed  hope,  he  sank  prone 
To  the  earth,  and  lay  there  with  a  pitiful  moan 
Faintly  marking  his  slow  and  irregular  breath, 
Alone  telling  that  still  he  was  master  of  death. 


GEBALDINE. 


291 


xxxin. 


On  a  late  autumn-clay  Mrs.  Lee  sat  alone 

In  her  room.     If  some  part  of  ber  beauty  bad  flown 

Througb  long  vigils  of  waiting,  a  casual  glance 

In  bor  face  could  not  sbow  it.     Some  tale  of  romance 

Medieval  lay  idly  before  ber  unread, 

Tbougb  its  pages  were  open.     Dumb  sorrow,  tbat  shed 

Only  tears  of  repression,  looked  out  of  ber  eyes. 

One  might  easily  think  she  was  hearing  the  cries 

Of  a  soul  in  despair. 

It  was  mid-afternoon. 
And  for  visits  of  form  rather  early ;  but  soon 
She  was  summoned  below  by  a  caller.     No  name 
Had  been  given  the  servant,  —  a  friend,  who  but  came 
With  a  message  of  interest ;  this  was  the  word 
That  was  brought  to  her.  Wondering,  when  she  had  heard 
What  the  message  might  be,  if  the  effort  to  hear  it 
Would  seem  well  repaid,  and  beginning  to  fear  it 
As  something  portentous  of  ill,  she  descended 
The  stairs.     If  her  life  had  on  calmness  depended. 
She  could  not  more  calm  have  appeared  when  she  went 
Through  the   drawing-room  door,    and  saw  Percival 
Trent. 


i 


^1 


'I . ! 


292 


GERALBINE. 


He  looked  aged  and  worn,  as  if  years  had  gone  past 
Since  they  parted.    Some  change  had  been  wrought  that 

would  last 
In  his  life,  she  as  quickly  discerned. 

"You've  been  ill, 
Mr.  Trent,"  she  remarked  as  they  met,  "  and  are  still 
Jut  an  invalid." 

"  Yes :  i  was  ill  in  the  mountains 
A  month,"  he  replied ;  "  am  in  search  of  the  fountains 
Of  health,  now,  at  home." 

"  I  had  fears  you  were  dead. 
It  is  two  or  three  summers,  I  think,  since  you  said 
Me  a  word.     "Were  you  reckless  of  life?  " 

A  quick  pain 
Made  more  haggard  h:s  face. 

*'  I'd  have  counted  it  gain 
But  a  little  before  to  have  died  ;  but  I  prayed 
More  than  ever  to  live  when  it  seemed  I  had  laid 
Myself  down  at  death's  door." 

"Tell  me  of  it,"  her  face 
Growing  eager  and  pitying  now,  and  the  lace 
On  her  bosom  betraying  the  heart-be^  iS  below. 


' '  There  is  little  to  tell.     It  is  little  I  know 
Of  the  story,  at  any  rate.     Wandering  down 
To  my  camp  in  the  valley,  from  climbing  the  crown 
Of  a  mountain,  my  strength  began  failing  me.     All 
I  c  )uld  do  by  and  by  was  to  stagger  and  fall, 


GERALDINE. 


293 


And  then  lie  there  uncousc.ous.     The  next  that  I  know 

I  was  lying  in  camp,  not  my  own,  with  a  true 

Good  Samaritan  nursing  me.     Providence  sent  him 

That  way  in  the  wilderness  surely,  and  lent  him 

To  save  me.     lie  says  I  had  fever,  and  lay 

On  the  edge  of  the  grave  for  a  fortnight.     One  day 

I  awoke  out  of  sleep,  and  I  found  myself  there, 

As  I  said,  in  the  camp  of  a  stranger.     His  care 

And  the  Lord' s  brought  me  through.    When  my  strengt  iv 

had  returned, 
He  came  with  me  to  Denver." 

"  He  certainly  earned 
The  undying  regard  of  your  friends,"  she  declared, 
Speaking  warmly.     "  You  cannot  so  early  be  spared 
From  the  need  of  the  world. ' '  And  the  look  that  she  gave 
Had  a  hungering  in  it. 

"  I  never  shall  crave 
To  go  out  of  this  being  again.     I  have  seen 
How  it  links  with  the  being  of  God,  how  between 
The  divine  and  the  human  runs  ever  a  thought 
That  should  glorify  life." 

It  was  clear  he  had  caught 
A  new  glimpse  of  the  sacredness  being  might  hold, 
From  his  words  and  his  tone,  and  she  wondered. 

"I  told 
A  man  dying,"  he  said,  "  a  while  since,  I  would  bear 
A  hard  message  to  you.     He  was  past  any  care 
That  could  save  him,  — was  dying  alone."  ^ 


m 


*  ft 

m 

i 


1 


294 


GEBALBTNE. 


M 
:  I 


As  he  spoke 
Very  slowly  and  sadly,  he  heard  the  slow  stroke 
Of  a  neighboring  bell,  and  it  seemed  like  a  knell 
For  the  dead.     He  went  on,  while  his  utterance  fell 
To  a  low  monotone,  and  she  listened  as  one 
Who  half  feared,  half  divined,  what  was  coming. 

"His  sun 
Set  at  noon.     It  had  been  a  sad  life  at  the  best. 
Before  going,  he  told  me  a  part ;  and  the  rest 
I  discovered  from  papers  of  his.     He  had  said 
I  should  learn  his  wife's  name  from  these  when  he  was 

dead, 
And  should  finO  her." 

The  woman  who  listened  grew  pale, 
But  kept  silence. 

"  My  search  could  not  possibly  fail 
Of  success,  when,  directed  so  plainly  as  here, 
I  found  guidance." 

He  gave  her  a  picture,  —  as  clear 
A  reflection  of  her  as  she  ever  had  faced 
At  the  mirror ;  and  when  in  her  hand  he  had  placed 
The  mute  semblance,  he  waited  her  answer. 

She  took 
The  small  portrait,  but  offered  no  word.  A  dumb  look 
Of  appealing  came  over  her  face. 

"Richard  Lee 
"Was  your  husband.  He  died,  with  none  near  him  but  me, 
In  a  canon  some  miles  from  a  camp.     I  sought  aid 


J: 


GEBALDINE. 


295 


From  there  later,  and  buried  him  under  the  shade 

Of  a  pine,  where  he  died.     In  this  package  you'll  find 

The  few  papers  he  had,  and  his  watch." 

"You  are  kind," 
She  said  faintly,  accepting  them  ;  much  as  if  saying  it 
Only  to  prelude  some  question,  delaying  it. 


"  No :  I  am  cruel,"  he  answered  her  sadly, 
' '  To  you  and  myself.     I  would  only  too  gladly 
Have  spared  you  the  pain  of  this  meeting,  and  saved 
Me  the  hurt  it  has  cost.     But  I  could  not.     I  braved 
Your  distress  and  my  own,  as  I  must,  for  the  sake 
Of  my  promise  to  him,  and  because  I  must  make 
A  last  call  upon  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him  then, 
With  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"You  have  come  to  me  when 
I  can  read  you  my  riddle  of  life,  can  unmask 
What  before  I  have  hidden  ;  and  now  will  you  task 
Me  to  say  a  good-by  that  is  final  ?    I  ask 
For  your  pardon  and  pity.     Forgive  me  for  keeping 
The  truth  from  you  so !     I  am  bitterly  reaping 
My  harvest  of  folly." 

The  pain  in  her  voice 
Betrayed  more  than  the  words. 

"  There  is  left  me  no  choice," 
He  responded  with  feeling.     "  We  cannot  continue 
To  meet  as  if  friends.     I  am  free  now  to  win  you, 


m 


296 


GEltALDINE. 


And  you  are  as  free  to  be  won  ;  but  our  ways 
Must  henceforth  lie  apart." 

She  looked  at  him  with  gaze 
So  intense  that  he  trembled. 

' '  What  was  it  you  learned 
Of  that  man  as  he  died,  thr.t  so  certainly  turned 
You  away  from  me  ?    V/hat  was  the  lie  that  he  sealed 
His  lips  with  at  the  last  ?  * ' 

As  she  boldly  appealed 
To  him  thus,  she  was  calmer  than  he.     It  was  hard 
To  repeat  the  hard  tale  of  a  woman's  life  marred 
As  hers  had  been,  and  hard  to  refuse  all  replying 
When  questioned  so  keenly. 

"  He  was  not  belying 
You  wholly.     You  were  the  man's  wife  ? " 

Thus  he  parried 
Her  queries,  or  tried  to. 

"  I  was.     We  were  married 
When  I  was  a  child,  now  it  seems  to  me.  --more 
Than  a  lifetime  ago,  I  could  think  it,  —  before 
I  at  all  comprehended  what  loving  or  living 
Might   mean ;    for   I   gave   him   my  hand  when   the 

giving 
Was  much  like  the  gift  of  a  book  to  a  friend,  — 
The  mere  thing  of  a  moment.     The  saddest  amend 
Has  been  made  for  my  careless  bestowal.     Ten  years 
He  has  called  me  his  wife,  —  a  long  season  of  tears. 
And  of  pain  to  my  soul.     Within  less  than  a  week 


GERALDINE. 


297 


he 


From  the  wedding  I  loathed  him,  —  yes,  loathed  him  ; 

but,  meek 
As  a  woman,  I  j^elded  myself  to  his  will. 
He  was  gross  in  his  nature,  — so  gross  he  coi.  d  kill 
Every  sensitive  feeling  within  me,  and  mock 
At  the  murder  in  scorn.     There  are  times  when  his 

talk 
I  can  hear  even  yet,  till  no  hell  of  hereafter 
Could  madden  me  so.    There  are  times  when  his  laughter 
All  devilish  crazes  me  now,  or  so  nearly 
I  wonder  if  reason  is  left  me.     Yes,  dearly, 
With  price  beyond  any  computing,  I've  paid 
For  the  gift  that  I  gave  him.     My  girliiood  was  made 
A  dark  shadow  of  gloom,  and  my  womanhood  knew 
Only  shadow  and  chill  till  you  came.     If  I  grew 
To  be  heartless  and  reckless,  my  friend,  do  you  wonder? 
Cut  off  from  all  happy  content,  put  asunder  • 
From  all  that  I  craved,  wedded  so  to  the  worst 
In  the  world  that  is  ever  incarnate,  and  cursed 
By  my  bondage  with  sin  so  diverse  it  took  in 
All  the  grosser  and  uglier  forms,  I  might  sin 
Without  adding  to  sorrow,  I  often  was  sure  ; 
But  I  did  not.     I  held  my  poor  womanhood  pure, 
Save  as  soiled  by  its  contact  with  him.     Did  I  e  toll 
You  a  different  story  ?  " 

' '  He  said  that  you  fell 
From  your  womanhood's  purity,  covered  with  shame 
The  home-altar,"  he  answered  her  frankly. 


'11 


4h 


298 


GERALDINE. 


I 

11 


A  flame 
Of  indignant  denial  burned  over  her  cheeks. 
"  You  believed  him?  "  she  asked.     "  All  those  pitiless 

weeks 
When  you  said  me  no  word,  you  believed  me  to  be 
A  false  wife  ?    Is  it  so  ?  "  <=' 

"You  forget,  Mrs.  Lee, 
That  my  silence  was  nearly  the  silence  of  death." 


"  I  remember  now,"  faintly  she  said  ;  and  her  breatli 
Became  quicker,  her  manner  more  passionate.   ' '  Did  you 
Believe  for  one  moment  his  story  ?     I  bid  you, 
By  all  we  have  been  to  each  other,  and  all 
That  we  might  be,  to  tell  me  !  " 

"  One  scarcely  cc     "^all 
It  believing,  when  doubt  is  as  strong  as  belief," 
He  made  answer.  "And  partial  believing  brought  grief 
To  me  keen  as  you  suffer  at  knowing  that  you 
Could  be  partially  doubted." 

He  paused. 

' '  I  was  true 
To  myself  and  to  him, ' '  she  declared, ' '  till  you  taught  me 
"What  loving  and  life  might  in  blessing  have  brought  me. 
Imprudent  and  reckless  at  times,  I  confess, 
I  cared  little  for  gossip  and  comment,  and  less 
For  the  jealousy  feeding  on  both.     As  for  liim 
Who  pronounced  me  untrue  by  and  by —  'twas  a  grim 
And  a  sickening  burlesque  on  purity,  when 


^ 


GERALBINE. 


299 


)U 


kll 


ef 


lie  accused  me  of  shame  and  dishonor.     The  men 
And  the  women  of  brothels  knew  well  where  he  spent 
Both  his  time  and  my  money. 

"  One  day,  Mr.  Trent, 
When  my  baby  came  to  me,"  —  a  far-away  look 
In  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  —  "in  brief  gladness  I  took 
It  up  into  my  arms,  and  I  said  to  the  Lord, 
'  Thou  hast  given  me  here  what  must  be  my  reward 
For  the  misery  mine.     Ma}'  it  minister  so 
To  my  need,  I  may  better  and  worthier  grow  !  * 
But  it  sickened.     The  dear  little  thing  slipped  away 
From  my  clinging  embrace.     It  was  cruel  to  pray 
It  might  live  ;  for  the  blood  in  its  innocent  veins 
Knew  the  sins  of  its  father,  and  carried  the  stains 
Of  his  lecherous  life  in  each  drop.     So  he  killed  it 
By  fatal  transmission.     They  said  the  Lord  willed  it : 
I  hated  him  then  ;  I  have  doubted  him  since. 


ue 

QC 


*'  After  that,  Richard  Lee  went  away.     I  can  wince 
Even  yet  at  the  pain  that  I  felt,  though,  before 
I  had  courage  to  force  him  to  leave  me.     The  more 
And  more  freely  I  gave  him  of  means,  but  the  lower 
He  sank  into  defilement.     I  stopped  his  supplies. 
And  he  robbed  me  of  jewels,  and  pawned  them.     My 

cries 
And  my  pleadings  he  jeered  at.  At  length  he  accused  mc 
Of  shame;"  and  she  shuddered.      "The  charge  but 

amused  me 


300 


GERALDTNE. 


i 


At  first.     But  I  had  been  too  careless  ;  and  some, 

Who  professed  to  be  friends,  for  the  moment  were  dumb 

In  declaring  belief  in  my  purity.     None 

Can  so  hurt  you  as  friends  with  their  silence.     The  sun 

Cast  a  shadow  far  darker  than  ever  on  me. 

When  my  husband  so  hedged  n  e  about,  I  could  see 

No  escape.     Then  I  offered  to  pf  y  Richard  Lee 

The  full  half  of  my  annual  income  to  go 

Out  of  sight  of  me  ever,  and  stay  there  ;  and  so 

He  enlisted  next  day,  having  drunk  enough  then 

To  be  brave.     I  could  hardly  be  sorrowful  when 

They  reported  him  dead  ;  but  my  sorrow  was  deep 

When  he  came  to  life  later.     To-day  if  I  weep. 

It  will  be  for  the  loss  of  your  love." 

"I  believe 
In  yoiu"  truth  and  3  jur  purity  both,  and  I  grieve 
That  we  cannot  be  friends  in  the  future,  except 
At  a  distance.     This  passion  of  ours,  that  has  swept 
Through  our  lives  like  a  Western  tornado  across 
The  wide  prairies,  may  leave  us  with  feeling  of  loss 
And  of  cruel  besetment.     But  both  of  us  soon 
Will  breathe  freer  and  purer.     A  calm  afternoon 
Of  content  and  uplifting  may  come  to  us  each 
For  the  morning  of  storms.   I  have  heard  the  clear  speech 
Of  my  Master  appointing  the  way  I  must  take. 
And  I  enter  it  patiently,  gladly.     The  ache 
Of  your  life  will  be  healed  by  and  by,  and  the  way 
That  you  walk  will  be  pleasant,  if  lonely  to-day." 


GERALDINE. 


301 


She  smiled  sadly,  half  bitterly. 

' '  Prophecy  drops 
From  your  lips  like  a  song,  but  unhappily  stops 
Too  far  short  of  a  plain  revelation.     It  yields 
Me  poor  comfort  to  say  that  through  sunshiny  fields 
I  may  go  on  some  morrow,  if  pain  shall  have  ceased. 
Simply  painless  alone.     It  might  give  me  at  least 
Just  a  hint  of  companionship  :  but  there  is  only 
One  soul  to  mate  mine  ;  and  the  way  must  be  lonely 
That  will  not  permit  me  to  walk  by  your  side." 


>ch 


"  I  am  weak,  and  unworthy  all  love,"  he  replied. 
"  I  had  plighted  my  love  and  my  faith,  ere  we  met, 
And  was  true  to  the  pledge.     AVhen  my  sympathy  set 
With  your  current  of  need,  then  swift  passion  conspired 
To  make  league  against  love.     All  my  nature  was  fired 
"With  the  conflict.     I  wrote  you,  I  said  you,  no  sentence 
Of  passionate  feeling,  but  called  for  repentance 
Of  manhood  and  faith.     Thus  it  was  till  my  pledge 
Was  returned  to  me  broken.     I  stood  on  the  edge 
Of  dishonor,  and  saw  myself  ready  to  sink 
Into  pitiless  shadow.     And  there,  by  the  brink 
Of  that  darkness  that  opened,  shone  out  a  great  light. 
I  saw  clearly  again,  and  I  stood  in  affright 
At  the  vision  so  clear.     Strong  as  ever  the  love 
I  had  plighted  and  broken  appeared,  set  above 
Every  other  profession,  yet  shadowed  by  sin. 
And  made  darker  by  loss.     That  I  ever  can  win 


I 


802 


GERALDINE. 


My  great  losses  once  more,  I  may  hope  in  some  morrow, 
But  dare  not  to-day. 

"  Yet  to-day  I  may  borrow 
Your  thought,  that  victorious  living  is  better 
Than  happiness.     Count  me  forever  your  debtor, 
If  slowly  the  thought  in  my  life  crystallizes 
To  character.     Out  of  the  many  surprises 
That  wait  for  insnaring  my  weakness,  I  then 
Shall  come  forth  a  glad  victor,  and  happier  men 
Will  not  know  such  a  blessing  as  crowns  me. 

"And  you  — 
Let  me  echo  your  thought  as  the  final  adieu 
That  I  speak  to  you  now,  Mrs.  Lee.     I  could  never 
Make  certain  and  true  any  patient  endeavor 
Of  yours  :  I  could  never  prove  company  best 
For  your  soul.    There  is  only  one  Strength  we  may  test 
To  the  uttermost,  knowing  it  never  can  fail : 
May  you  find  it !  " 

He  rose,  and  his  cheeks  were  as  pale 
As  her  own  when  she  spoke. 

"And  this,  then,  is  the  end?'* 
She  besought  him  with  pleading. 

"  Say,  rather,  my  friend, 
That  this  moment  we  make  a  beginning  in  living 
Victorious,"  firmly  he  answered,  and  giving 
His  hand  to  her  now. 

As  she  took  it,  they  stood 
Face  to  face  in  farewell. 


QEBALDINE. 


303 


*'  You  are  noble  and  good, 
But  as  cruel  as  fate,"  she  declared.     "  And  my  fate 
Has  been  cruder  far  than  the  grave.     I  shall  wait 
For  the  kindness  of  that  with  impatient  appeal. 
Till  it  comes." 

The  sharp  pain  in  her  words  he  could  feel 
Keenly  stabbing  his  heart. 

"  May  you  learn  that  the  blessing 
Of  death  is  not  one  to  be  coveted  !  "  pressing 
Her  hand  between  his.     "  May  you  see,  as  I  see  it. 
That  life  has  its  uses  and  sweetness,  albeit 
Its  crosses  and  losses  are  great !  " 

She  grew  faint 
From  her  hunger  and  hurt  and  the  steady  restraint 
Over  self.    As  he  saw  it,  he  tenderly  bore 
Her  across  to  a  sofa,  and  strode  to  the  door. 


e 


d, 


So  they  parted,  —  the  woman  half  fainting,  no  word 

Of  good-by  slipping  through  the  white  lips  that  had  erred 

In  confessing  a  passion  unduly,  no  token 

Of  bitter  reproach  for  the  words  he  had  spoken  ; 

The  man  with  a  sense  of  distrust  making  laggard 

His  self-justifyings,  his  face  growing  haggard 

And  pinched  with  the  pity  and  torment  of  soul 

That  possessed  him,  —  to  find,  if  God  please,  the  one 

goal 
At  the  end  of  the  world,  whither  every  road  leads 
That  we  walk  in,  whatever  our  longing  and  needs. 


804 


GERALDINE. 


xxxiy. 


It  was  months  before  Trent  became  stalwart  again ; 
But  be  took  up  bis  labor,  and  went  among  men, 
In  much  bodily  weakness,  and  often  depressed, 
Yet  with  strength  of  his  manhood  renewed.     And  none 

guessed 
That  his  life  was  a  penitence  daily  ;  that,  giving 
Brave  words  for  the  true  and  the  good,  he  was  living 
A  bitter  repentance  for  sin  he  had  pondered 
And  planned  ;  that  alone  in  despair  he  had  wandered 
To  lay  down  the  burdens  of  being.     He  held 
His  old  cheeriness  well  before  others,  compelled 
The  good-humor  that  won  him  his  friends,  went  about 
As  a  light, 'not  a  shadow.     But  often  some  doubt 
Of  himself  sent  him  into  the  gloom  that  was  near, 
Even  when  he  stood  most  in  the  sun ;  or  a  fear 
Of  the  mercy  of  God  made  him  weak  as  a  child, 
And  despairing  as  one  who  is  never  beguiled 
By  the  blessing  of  Christ. 

At  the  first,  in  December's 
Chill  dreariness,  sitting  alone  by  the  embers 
He  stirred  to  a  blaze,  he  made  offering  gladly 
Of  Mrs.  Lee's  letters,  then  musingly,  sadly, 


GEliALDINJS. 


305 


QC 


As  flickered  the  flames  into  quivering  flashes 
Of  light,  and  then  died,  he  wrote,  — 

ASHES  TO  ASHES. 

A  grate  full  and  glowing:  now  bum  every  letter 

That  tells  of  the  past. 
Ashes  to  ashes  1    'Tis  better,  far  better, 

Such  love  should  not  last. 

Words  half  aflame  with  the  warmth  of  their  passion 

Will  need  but  a  spark: 
Nothing  remains  but  a  film  that  is  ashen, 

Faded,  and  dark. 

How  the  fire  leaps  in  its  madness  so  merry, 

And  kisses  the  lines  1 
Darkness  will  soon  all  their  sentiment  bury 

Where  no  one  divines. 

What  is  the  past  ?    A  wild  dream  that  has  faded, 

A  story  soon  told : 
All  of  its  sunshine  to  sombre  is  shaded, 

Its  summer  grown  cold. 

Bleak  blow  the  winter  winds  down  the  to-morrows 

With  shiver  and  moan. 
How  the  grate  glows  with  the  fever  it  borrows 

From  love  that  is  flown  I 


r's 


Chilly  the  air  is ;  the  fever  is  dying 

That  fed  the  hot  grate: 
Out  in  the  night  the  chill  night-breeze  is  sighing 

As  plaintive  as  fate. 


306 


GERALBINE. 


Falter  the  flames  into  flickering  flaslies, 

Till  (lark  is  the  room: 
Whisper  it  tenderly,  "Ashes  to  ashes  1" 

Here  in  the  gloom. 

Nothing  remains  of  a  marvellous  treasure 
That  one  day  was  mine,  — 

Passion  disguised  as  a  love  heyond  measure, 
And  now  without  sign. 

Nothing  remains  ?    Ah!  perhaps  it  were  better 

Were  ashes  the  whole ;    . 
But  somehow  I  fancy  each  passionate  letter  ' 

To  me  had  a  soul: 


I 


\^.i 


And  in  the  dark  days  of  my  dreary  Decembers 

Each  ^oul  may  return, 
And  here  in  the  gloom  of  my  flickering  embers 

May  sacrifice  bum. 

No  IL  ^te^.     Good-by  to  the  words  that  were  spoken 

In  days  that  are  fled ! 
For  passion  burned  out,  let  the  ashes  be  token, 

As  dust  for  the  dead. 


So  he  put  from  his  sight  what  he  could  of  the  past 
That  might  trouble  him,  or  that  a  shadow  might  cast 
On  his  present,  to  prove  but  a  shadow  of  hurting, 
Not  healing.     His  manhood  grew  stronger,  asserting 
Its  purified  purpose  in  patience,  and  leaning 
More  nearly  each  day  upon  God.     The  deep  meaning 
Of  life  became  clearer  and  sweeter.     He  knew 


GERALDINE. 


307 


A  diviner  and  holier  thought  running  through 

All  its  uses  than  ever  before.     He  was  eager 

With  tongue  and  with  pen  for  the  right.     To  beleaguer 

The  wrong  was  henceforward  his  mission  with  zeal 

More  intense,  and  with  faith  more  uplifted  and  leal. 

And  the  time  wore  away.  He  shunned  Rivermet  chiefly, 

Or  tarried  there  only  as  needful,  and  briefly. 

His  hunger  of  heart  for  the  love  that  he  missed, 

And  yet  knew  to  be  his,  would  at  seasons  insist 

Upon  going  to  Geraldine  straightway,  and  telling 

Its  craving  of  need,  with  insistence  compelling 

Anew  the  great  gift  of  herself ;  but  he  waited 

In  patient  endeavor  the  gift,  that,  belated, 

Must  minister  unto  his  need,  if  he  ever 

Should  know  the  sweet  ministry  more.     Yet  he  never 

Felt  utterly  hopelesii?  when  once  he  had  come 

Into  healthier  life.     If  to-day  he  were  dumb. 

Some  to-morrow  might  happily  gladden  him,  when 

He  could  win  her  to  hearing  and  trust.     Until  then 

He  would  do  a  man's  work  as  he  might,  among  men. 


There  are  souls  who  walk  cheerfully  with  us,  and  lift 

Us  to  new  aspirations  by  bountiful  gift 

Of  their  courage  and  hope,  who  are  braver  than  those 

Going  forth  into  battle.     Each  day  their  repose 

Is  but  peace  after  striving.    Each  day  they  have  fought 

A  strong  enemy  hidden  within,  and  have  caught 


■'''■ 


308 


GEEALDINE. 


The  sweet  grace  of  their  patience  from  victory  won 
Over  self.     And  each  day  the  hard  duty,  best  done, 
Is  this  facing  a  foe  ever  present,  with  hope 
Never  yielding,  and  courage  that  always  can  cope 
With  the  haunting  defiance,  and  conquer  it.     Add 
To  the  strife  of  to-day  the  remembrances  mad 
Of  a  bitter  defeat  in  the  past,  the  pale  ghost 
Of  a  mastery  cruel,  whose  torment  is  most 
In  the  memory  yet  like  a  prelude  of  hell, 
And  we  pity  the  soul  that  from  victory  fell ; 
But  we  never  can  blame  if  again  there  be  tears 
And  laments  for  a  victory  lost. 

Through  the  years* 
r«'^<y  rounds,  in  much  hope  and  much  fearfuluess,  went 
Tj  p  and  down  uncomplainingly  Percival  Trent. 
As  he  labored,  his  love  for  the  work  best  returning 
True  wages  of  labor,  he  slowly  was  earning 
The  prizes  of  fame.     Without  shaping  his  life 
For  the  public,  a  place  in  the  front  of  the  strife 
Between  error  and  truth  was  forever  accorded  him. 
Men  with  brave  honor  of  manhood  rewarded  him 
Out  of  their  generous  confidence,  yielded 
Him  heartiest  praise  for  the  blows  that  he  wielded 
Defending  the  right,  made  him  willing  and  strong 
When  unwilling  and  weak  he  became  ;  and  his  song 
Grew  as  sweet  and  as  clear  as  his  eloquent  speech 
Became  braver  and  stronger.     Its  musical  reach 
Was  as  broad  as  the  longiuo-s  of  men,  and  it  thrilled 


GERALBINE, 


309 


"With  new  tenderness.     Through  it  some  mastery  willed 

The  deep  feeling  of  hearts,  till  they  listened  and  stirred 

In  their  stupor  or  pain  as  if  touched  by  a  word 

Out  of  heaven.     And  as  always  the  singer  hears  much 

In  his  song  that  is  lost  to  the  many,  some  touch 

Of  divinely  beneficent  blessing  he  knew, 

As  he  sang,  that  was  never  sent  pulsating  through 

Any  heart  but  his  own. 

He  had  sweet  compensation 
For  singing.     A  tender  and  hallowed  elation 
Of  spirit  came  to  him  in  place  of  depression 
And  pain.     In  his  heart  there  was  gladder  possession 
Than  doubt  and  distrust.     And  if  silent  he  kept, 
Walking  on  for  a  day  while  all  melody  slept 
In  his  soul  with  no  sunshine  to  thrill  it  and  wake  it, 
Some  comfort  came  over  his  journey  to  make  it 
Less  dark :   the  warm  thanks  of  glad  hearts  he  had 

cheered 
"Were  borne  to  him  in  cheering,  and  life  was  endeared 
To  himself  as  for  others  he  made  it  a  gladder 
And  holier  thing.     If  his  song  became  '^'adder 
At  times  than  a  lyric  of  hope,  it  was  rare 
That  it  had  not  a  hope  hidden  under,  a  care 
Reaching  through  it  for  others  more  hopeless,  a  thought, 
Out  of  hunger  and  heartache  and  loneliness  caught, 
For  some  hunger  of  hope  to  make  feast  of. 

At  times, 
Ringing  clear  as  a  chime  through  Ms  musical  rhymes, 


310 


GEBALDINE. 


Came  a  glad  Jubilate,  —  a  song  full  of  praise 

For  the  light  iu  the  night,  for  the  glory  of  days 

"Without  shadow  of  dark,  for  the  glow  and  the  glory 

Of  being.     And  often  through  legend  or  story 

Some  homily  ran  in  disguise,  close  akin 

To  the  teaching  of  Christ,  that  persuasive  could  win 

Where  a  plainer  appeal  might  repel.     So  he  preached 

A  wide  gospel  of  good.     So  he  happily  reached 

The  closed  ear  of  indifference  often,  and  made 

The  great  heart  of  humanity  thrill  as  he  played 

On  its  quivering  strings.     So  he  brought  to  clear  seeing 

The  secret  of  life,  as  in 

BUILDING  AND  BEING. 

The  king  would  build,  so  a  legend  says, 
The  finest  of  all  fine  palaces. 

He  sent  for  St.  Thomas,  a  builder  rare, 
And  bade  him  to  rear  them  a  wonder  fair. 

The  king's  great  treasure  was  placed  at  hand, 
And  with  it  the  sovereign's  one  command,  — 

"  Build  well,  O  builder  so  good  and  great  1 
And  add  to  the  glory  of  my  estate. 

"Build  well,  nor  spare  of  my  wealth  to  show 
A  prouder  palace  than  mortals  know." 


The  king  took  leave  of  his  kingdom  then, 
And  wandered  far  from  the  haunts  of  men. 


GERALDINE. 


311 


St.  Thomas  the  king's  great  treasure  5^)ent 
111  worthier  way  than  his  master  meant. 

He  clad  the  naked,  the  hungry  fed, 
The  oil  of  gladness  arouuu  him  shed. 

He  blessed  them  all  with  the  ample  store, 
As  never  a  king's  wealth  blessed  before. 

The  king  came  back  from  his  journey  long, 
But  found  no  grace  in  the  happy  throng 

That  greeted  him  now  on  his  slow  return, 
To  teach  him  the  lesson  he  ought  to  learn. 

The  king  came  back  to  his  well-spent  gold ; 
But  no  new  palace  could  he  behold. 

In  terrible  anger  he  swore,  and  said 

That  the  builder's  folly  should  cost  his  head. 

St.  Thomas  in  dungeon  dark  was  cast, 

Till  the  time  for  his  punishment  dire  were  passed. 

Then  it  chanced,  or  the  good  God  willed  it  so, 
That  the  lung's  own  brother  in  death  lay  low. 

When  four  days  dead,  as  the  legend  reads. 
He  rose  to  humanity's  life  and  needs. 


From  sleep  of  the  dust  he  strangely  woke, 
And  thus  to  his  brother  the  king  he  spoke : 


312 


GERALBINE. 


(< 


I  have  been  to  Paradise,  O  my  king ! 
And  have  heard  the  heavenly  angels  sing. 

"  And  there  I  saw,  by  the  t*ates  of  gold, 
A  palace  finer  than  tongue  l^s  told; 

"  Its  walls  and  towers  were  lift  3d  high 
In  beautiful  grace  to  the  bending  slcy ; 

"Its  glories,  there  in  that  radiant  place. 

Shone  forth  like  a  smile  from  the  dear  Lord's  face. 

"  An  angel  said  it  was  builded  there 

By  the  good  St.  Thomas,  with  love  and  care 

"  For  our  fellow-men,  and  that  it  should  be 
Thy  palace  of  peace  through  eternity." 

The  king  this  vision  pondered  well. 

Till  he  took  St.  Thomas  from  dungeon-cell, 

And  said,  "  O  builder!  he  most  is  wise 
Who  buildeth  ever  for  Paradise." 


GEBALDINE. 


818 


XXXV. 


A  GREAT  audi'   ce  gathered  in  Rivermet  Hall 
To  hear  words  of  reform.     It  was  late  In  the  full, 
And  the  night  had  the  glory  of  winter,  with  less 
Than  its  frostiness  brilliant. 

The  leading  address 
Was  to  be,  as  a  newspaper  item  declared, 
By  a  man  of  the  people,  —  a  man  who  had  dared 
To  be  true  to  himself  and  all  manhood,  at  peril 
Of  popular  favor ;  who  planted  the  sterile 
And  adamant  wayside  with  seeds  of  the  right. 
And  could  wait  for  the  harvest ;  who,  until  to-night. 
Had  not  spoken  for  Rivermet  hearing  in  years. 
If  fine  irony  lurked  in  the  language  for  ears 
Quick  to  catch  it,  the  writer  might  well  have  been  par- 
doned. 
The  wayside  of  life  has  forever  been  hardened 
By  selfishness,  strewn  with  the  rocks  of  dispute 
And  denial  and  error  ;  and  whoso  would  fruit 
The  good  seed  of  the  truth  must  be  patient  indeed, 
If  on  ground  that  is  stony  he  scatter  his  seed  : 
Yet  all  harvests  of  time  worth  the  reaping  have  grown 
From  an  acreage  rocky  where  patience  Imd  strewn. 


I 


I'll 


314 


UEltALDINE. 


\  '' 


In  the  crowded  asseiiil)ly  stit  Geraldine,  flushed 

"With  expectancy  eager  ;  or  haply  she  Mushed  . 

At  the  conscious  desire  that  was  hers.     She  had  schooled 

Her  poor  heart  into  silence,  she  thought ;  she  had  cooled 

Its  hot  burnings,  or  smothered  them  so  they  no  more 

Could  arouse  the  old  fever  of  pain  :  but,  before 

She  looked  into  the  face  of  the  speaker,  she  knew 

That  she  waited  with  longing  and  hunger  that  grew 

Beyond  all  satisfaction  she  ever  might  find. 

She  must  love  to  the  end,  whether  loving  be  kind 

Or  be  cruel ;  must  love,  and  be  keenly  alive 

To  her  love  ;  and  no  long  separation  could  shrive 

Her  of  loving,  or  bring  her  the  absolute  peace 

Of  unlovingness.     Yet  she  had  found  a  release 

From  the  bitterest  bondage  of  love.     She  had  stood 

In  the  freedom  of  faith,  and  had  seen  life  a  good 

And  a  beautiful  thing,  though  by  sorrow  beset : 

In  a  ministry  sweet  she  had  learned  to  forget 

Her  own  sorrowing  need,  and  be  glad :  she  had  measure 

Of  happiness,  measure  of  peace,  in  the  pleasure 

That  grew  out  of  daily  bestowing. 

As  Trent 
Came  before  them,  the  air  was  all  smitten  and  rent 
By  the  storm  of  applause  ;  and  her  pulse  quicker  beat 
As  she  looked  once  again  in  his  face  from  her  seat 
Near  the  front  of  the  hall.     He  Tas  changed.     He  had 

older 
And  manlier  grown ;  and  a  careful  beholder 


GEUALBINE. 


315 


at 
liad 


Could  see  in  his  smile  a  great  weariness  hide,  — 

Not  alone  of  the  head,  but  the  heart.     The  strong  tide 

He  had  buffeted  long,  the  bold  errors  without, 

And,  within,  the  old  struggle  with  passion  and  doubt. 

Had  been  wearing  to  soul  and  to  brain.    But  his  speech 

Held  perennial  freshness  within  it  for  each 

Of  that  waiting  assemblage  ;  and  round  after  round 

Of  tumultuous  cheers  gave  approval. 

The  sound 
Of  his  voice  and  the  sight  of  his  face  were  too  much 
For  her  fancied  control  over  self ;  and  the  touch 
Of  swift  tears  on  her  cheek  brought  to  Geraldine  shame 
And  distress.  The  keen  gladness  that  thrilled  her  became 
But  reproaches  and  il)itterness.     Longing  unrest 
Was  upon  her,  a  need  and  a  craving  unguessed 
Before  thus  she  was  mastered.     For  so  to  be  near  him 
Was  only  half  pleasure,  half  pain.     Could  she  hear 

him 
Once  breathing  her  name  ;  could  she  know  that  he  spoke  it 
With  love  undivided  as  faith  ere  he  broke  it,  — 
Ah  '  then  she  might  go  from  him  comforted,  strong, 
And  content  in  the  will  of  the  Lord.     But  to  long 
For  his  answering  love  through  a  distance  decreed 
By  the  wisdom  of  God,  and  to  know  that  her  need 
Never  met  a  response  ;  to  be  conscious,  not  merely 
Of  distance  that  held  them  apart,  but  as  clearly 
To  feel  that  no  cry  of  his  heart  came  to  hers 
Through  the  spaces  between,  —  ah  !  the  hope  that  defers 


316 


G  Eli  A  L  DINE. 


Maketh  sick  ;  but  the  hope  that  is  hopeless  can  pain 
To  sore  agony. 

Hiding  her  face,  and  the  rain 
Of  hot  tears  that  ran  over  it,  Geraldine  heard 
Without  heeding  what  followed,  yet  melted  and  stirred 
To  the  deeps  of  her  soul  by  the  current  magnetic 
That  throbbed  through  the  place.     If  the  words  were 

pathetic 
That  came  from  those  lips  she  had  kissed,  she  but  knew  it 
Unconsciously.     Over  their  meaning,  and  through  it, 
Went  pulsing  a  thrill  and  a  message  that  spoke 
To  her  only  ;  that  through  the  vast  concourse  awoke 
No  such  answer  as  hers. 

She  was  dimly  aware 
That  a  gathering  tempest  of  cheers  blew  the  air 
Into  waves  of  approval  around  her  again. 
After  silence  that  spoke  as  approvingly,  when, 
Far  above  the  applause  that  went  echoing  round. 
Striking  sharp  on  the  sense  as  a  thunder  of  sound 
Amid  hushes  of  stillness,  she  heard  a  wild  cry 
With  swift  terror  outwinging  it,  — 

"Fire!" 

Then  to  fly 
Was  the  impulse  of  all.     Women  shrieked,  and  the  faces 
Of  men  became  ghastly.     They  rose  in  their  places. 
And  surged  for  the  doors.    A  mad  panic  impended, 
And  death  brooded  grim  over  life,  when  ascended 
A  clarion  call  of  command  that  arrested 


GERALDINE. 


817 


The  tumult,  and  forced  them  to  hear.    He  who  breasted 
Their  purpose  insane  stood  as  calm  he  had  stood 
But  a  moment  before,  and  entreated  them. 

"Good 
And  brave  people,"  he  said,  "  the  great  danger  to  you 
Is  in  haste  ;  for  the  flames  are  above  us.     Be  true 
To  strong  manhood  and  womanhood  now,  would  you  live 
To  be  strong  men  and  women  to-morrow.     I'll  give 
You  the  signal  when  haste  is  imperative.     None 
Are  in  peril  this  moment.     Pass  out." 

He  had  won 
Them  to  reason ;  and,  standing  there  steady  and  cool 
As  a  master  dismissing  his  turbulent  school, 
By  his  mightier  will  he  restrained  them. 

And  she 
Whom  he  loved  and  who  loved  him,  as  calmly  as  he 
Stood  and  looked  at  the  crowd,  little  caring  to  go 
Since  he  staid.     She  had  torn  off  her  veil,  and  a  glow 
Of  excitement  illumined  her  face,  while  the  light 
Of  their  tears  glistened  still  in  her  eyes.    The  mad  fright 
Had  not  seized  her,  although  she  had  seen  at  the  first 
The  red  flames  lap  the  ceiling,  and  knew  how  the  worst 
Might  appall.     But  she  felt  in  his  presence  a  glad. 
Indefinable  safety,  that  held  her,  and  bade 
Her  to  wait. 

The  crowd  lessened.  She  lingered  alone 
In  that  part  of  the  hall.  The  swift  flames  having  flown 
All  along  the  bright  fresco  just  over  the  stage, 


318 


GERALDINE. 


Leaping  lower,  ran  hissing  and  snapping  in  rage 
At  the  man  who  stood  under  them,  seeming  to  care 
For  each  one  but  himself.     Seeing  which,  with  a  prayer 
For  them  all,  she  turned  toward  him,  as  only  intent 
On  the  figures  receding  he  seemed. 

"Mr.  Trent! 
You  forget  your  own  safety,"  she  cried. 

As  he  turned 
At  her  sudden  appeal,  close  in  rear  of  him  burned 
The  hot  breath  of  the  blaze.     He  sprang  down  to  the 

floor, 
And  as  quickly  flew  to  her. 

"  I  saw  you  before, 
And  I  saw  that  you  waited,"  he  answered  her,  speaking 
With  tremulous  haste.     "  It  is  time  we  were  seeking 
Safe  exit.     Our  ways  lie  together  till  death 
Shall  divide  us." 

Around  them  the  feverish  breath 
Of  the  flames  became  hotter  and  fiercer.     Without 
There  were  shoutings  and  cheers ;    but  amid  all  the 

doubt 
That  surrounded,  one  certainty  came  to  them  each, 
Clear  and  sweet  as  the  sunlight,  too  holy  for  speech. 
And  too  happy  for  smiles.     As  he  looked  in  her  eyes, 
So  she  looked  into  his,  out  of  patient  and  wise 
Revelation  and  hope  ;  and  love's  certain  assurance 
Shone  glad  on  them  both  with  its  pledge  of  endm*ance 
And  faith. 


GEliALDINE. 


319 


They  were  last  to  pass  out  from  the  smoke 
That  grow  bliuding  and  stitliiig,  as  after  thum  l)roke 
Lurid  torreuts  of  Ih'C.     lu  the  street  they  were  greeted 
By  thundering  eheers  tliat  were  caught  and  repeated 
On  quivering  lips  by  the  masses  who  waited 
To  see  him  appear. 

The  great  building  was  fated 
For  ruin  and  ashes.     No  effort  could  check 
The  omnivorous  demons  that  fed  on  its  wreck 
Amid  laughter  demoniac,  shrieking  and  screaming  — 
Mad  fiends  of  the  fiames.     Lilvc  a  horrible  dreaming 
The  picture  became  to  these  two  as  they  staid 
With  the  rest  to  behold  it. 

At  length,  when  there  laid 
But  a  smouldering  pile  sobbing  up  to  the  night, 
They  went  slowly  away. 

"  So  the  passion  whose  might 
Came  between  us  burned  out  into  ashes,"  he  said. 
"  Let  the  dead  of  our  yesterdays  bury  its  dead. 
You  are  mine  for  to-morrow  and  always  ;  and  I 
Shall  be  true  to  a  love  never  dead  till  I  die." 


«. 


With  the  tenderest  speech  to  his  own  she  replied,  — 
' '  The  past  narrows  to  nothing.     To-morrow  is  wide 
As  eternity.     God,  who  is  loving  and  just, 
AVhispers,  '  Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  unto  dust,' 
Over  all  that  is  gone.     Let  it  sleep,  while  in  trust 
AVe  walk  on  through  the  future  together." 


320 


GEBALDINE. 


Above, 

The  stars  glistened  in  blessing.     To  be  and  to  love 

Became  deeper  and  truer  and  holier  far, 

For  the  narrowing  past.     Every  hallowing  star 

Shed  a  glory  benejQcent  on  them,  to  tint 

The  broad  morrow  with  softness,  and  leave  but  a  hint 

Of  the  night  overflown  in  the  mellower  splendor 

Of  day. 

So  in  reverent,  final  surrender 
C^  ?ach  unto  each,  they  upliited  the  burdens 
Borne  separate  long,  to  grow  glad  with  the  guerdons 
Of  victory  sweeter  than  any  they  know 
Who  are  never  twin-souled  :  so  at  last  would  t>ey  go 
In  the  strength  of  each  other  and  God  till  the  end, 
Seeing  each  within  each  truest  lover  and  friend. 


They  were  wedded  at  Christmas.     Next  summer  they 

went 
For  a  bridal  trip  down  the  St.  Lawrence.     Content 
Kept  them  company  sweet.    A  far  summer  that  seemed 
When  he  sailed  there  before ;    and,  if  once  he   had 

dreamed 
Of  such  beauty  and  peace,  it  could  hardly  have  been 
More  indeed  like  a  dream  that  he  lingered  within. 
He  had  drifted  away  from  all  memories  keen ; 
And  his  life,  like  the  river,  ran  smooth  and  serene  : 
He  had  come  where  the  current  set  calm  to  the  sea, 
And  the  sum  of  each  day  was  to  love  and  to  be. 


GEEALBINE. 


321 


They  were  long  at  the  Islands. 

One  night  as  they  tarried 
Trout,  sniiUng  but  silent,  to  Geraldine  carried 
A  newspaper  marked  ;  and  she  read  in  it,  — 

MARRIED. 

Last  evening  at  eight,  at  the  Church  of  All  Souls, 
In  this  city,  by  Bishop  Delancey  CanoUes 
And  the  rector  the  Reverend  Doctor  Pardee, 
Major  Archibald  Mellen  and  Isabel  Lee. 


i 


THE   END. 


